The Faded Sutra
The house was dying, a slow hemorrhage of plaster and rot that Margaret Holloway tried to patch with her bare hands and a silence that had grown teeth, a silence that chewed on the bones of the walls until they crumbled into dust that settled on the floorboards like ash from a fire that had burned out decades ago. She stood in the center of the parlor, her fingers caked in the white powder of...
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