The Pale Letter
The house breathes. You know this. You have always known this. The walls are not wood and plaster but something older, something that shifts in the dark like a sleeper turning in bed. You live in the attic. The air here is thin and tastes of dust and ozone. It is the only place that feels solid. The rest of the house is a lie. You are a soldier. You are a protector. You wear the uniform of the...
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