The Faded Root
The house breathed. It was a slow, wet exhalation. The walls sweated. The floorboards groaned under the weight of my silence. I stood in the center of the hall, bare feet on the cold oak. The air tasted of copper and old dust. Outside, the war raged. Not with guns. Not with bombs. But with a low, thrumming hum that vibrated in the teeth. It was a sound like static. Like the universe fraying at...
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