The Wistful Crossroads

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 18:15:27 -

The bowl sat on the table. It was blue. Chipped. I picked it up. The clay was cold. It felt like bone. My mother’s hands were gone. The house remained. It is a large house. Too large. The hallways stretch out like long fingers. They point toward the dark. I walk slowly. My shoes make a soft sound. Tap. Tap. Tap. The system says I am well. The papers say I am well. I know better. I am not well....

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