The Pale Dance

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 03:10:03 -

The Pale Dance

The coat was heavy. It smelled of mothballs and old rain. I held it up against the light in the hallway, the wool thick and dark as a bruise. It had been my father’s. Then it had been mine. Now it was just a thing. A shell. I was leaving. The house was silent, a vacuum that sucked the air from my lungs. My mother was gone. Three days. The silence was not empty. It was full of her. It was full...

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