The Wistful Skyline
The house breathes when you are not looking. You know this. You have always known this. It is not a metaphor. The plaster swells and contracts with a slow, tidal rhythm, the floorboards creaking in time with a heartbeat that does not belong to you, nor to the empty rooms where the dust motes dance in the slanting afternoon light. You are the house, and the house is you. This is the secret that...
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