The Wistful Silence
The rain hit the glass. Hard. It didn’t stop. It just kept coming. I watched it streak down the pane. The water ran in lines. Like veins. Like cracks. I held my cup. The tea was cold. I didn’t care. I was listening to the house. Or rather, I was listening to the thing that lived inside the house. It was quiet. Too quiet. The silence had weight. It pressed against my eardrums. It tasted like...
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