The Wistful Letter
The house was breathing. I could feel it against my back, a slow, wet expansion of the wallpaper, a rhythm that matched my own terrified pulse. I stood in the center of the hallway, the floorboards groaning under the weight of my stillness. It was not a sound of structural failure. It was the sound of something holding its breath. "Did you hear that?" I whispered. The voice did not come from a...
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