The Wistful Silence
The house stood at the end of Elm Street not like a structure built by hands, but like a scar that had refused to heal, its white clapboard siding peeling in long, sunburned strips that revealed the dark, rotting timber beneath, and I stood before it in the late autumn chill, watching the way the light faded from the sky in a bruised purple haze, knowing that this was the final hour of my...
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