The Wistful Show
The house was dying. It did not collapse all at once, as one might expect of a structure held together by rot and neglect. Instead, it exhaled. It shed its skin in long, peeling strips of plaster and paint, revealing the skeletal timber beneath like the ribs of a starved animal. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the main hall, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the dust motes dance...
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