The Wistful Silence
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray curtain that turned the world outside the window of the old Victorian house into a blur of wet leaves and dissolving pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a preservation of time that felt less like living and more like being kept. I stood by the bay window, my hands resting on the cold glass, feeling...
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