The Pale Garden
The mirror cracks. It happens at dawn. You are in the kitchen. The coffee is cold. The glass shard cuts your finger. A thin red line. You watch the blood bead. It looks like a drop of wine. You are an immigrant. You are here to hide. The house is old. The house is vast. It breathes. Or so you think. You live alone. You live in silence. The walls are thick. The floorboards groan. You moved here...
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