The Wistful Petal
The house breathed with us, a slow, rhythmic inhalation of dust and damp that we had mistaken for life for thirty years, until the night the walls began to whisper in a language older than our tongues. I was standing at the window, watching the rain scour the glass into a blurred, weeping face, when I felt the first tremor not in the floorboards but in the marrow of my own bones, a vibration so...
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