The Faded Photograph
The house on Blackwood Lane was not merely old; it was a living thing that had forgotten how to sleep. You stood in the foyer, the air thick with the scent of damp plaster and forgotten centuries, your hand resting on the banister. It was cold, slick with a moisture that seemed to seep from the wood itself, a physical manifestation of the grief that had settled into the bones of the structure....
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