The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-19 09:06:07 -

The house on Sallow Creek did not burn so much as it exhaled its soul in a single, terrible breath. I was standing on the porch, holding a mug of cold coffee that had gone bitter in the rain, watching the eaves curl inward like dying leaves. The smoke was not the gray, drifting haze of a chimney fire; it was a black, oily wall that swallowed the moon and turned the sky into a bruised purple...

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