The Faded Sutra
The house stood like a clenched fist against the grey afternoon, its white clapboard skin peeling in long, scab-like strips that revealed the dark, rotting wood beneath. It was a place of such aggressive, rigid symmetry that it seemed less a home than a monument to order, built by a man who believed that if the lines were drawn sharp enough, the chaos of the world might be kept at bay. Inside,...
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