The Wistful Silence
The silence in the house was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the back of your throat and settled into the marrow of your bones, a thick, gray fog that you could taste on your tongue, metallic and old. You sat in the armchair by the window, your hands resting on your knees, fingers laced together so tightly that the knuckles turned white, and you watched the rain...
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