The Distant Garden
The roof collapses first. Not with a crash, but with a sigh, like an old man exhaling his last breath. You are sitting in the kitchen of the house on Hillside Road, a place that has existed for three hundred years and which, in that moment, ceases to be a house and becomes a mouth. The timber beams groan and snap, raining splinters onto the floorboards where you sit. You do not move. You have...
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