The Faded Frontier
The dust in the hallway has settled into a fine, gray powder that coats the tongue with the taste of chalk and old copper. You are standing at the threshold of the living room, your boots heavy on the hardwood, the soles creaking in a rhythm that feels less like walking and more like the ticking of a broken clock. The house is silent, but it is not an empty silence. It is a held breath, a...
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