The Faded Bouquet
The house was a mouth. It did not eat. It waited. Elias stood in the center of the ballroom. Dust motes danced in the shafts of gray light. He was seven. He was alone. The walls were peeling. The wallpaper had turned to lace. It hung in tatters like old skin. The floorboards groaned under his shoes. They were scuffed. They were brown. They were his mother’s. He looked at the door. It was black....
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