The Wistful Throne
The armchair is the only thing in the house that remembers you. It sits in the corner of the living room, a deep, bruised purple velvet that has faded to a dull, exhausted gray under the relentless assault of sunlight and time. You know every tear in its fabric, every spot where the stuffing has shifted to create a hollow that mimics the shape of a broken heart. It is a throne, if thrones can...
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