The Pale Circus
The house breathed. I could hear it, a slow, rhythmic exhalation of cold air escaping through the floorboards, a sound like the wind moving through a cavern of stone. It was late November, the kind of dark that presses against the windows, heavy and wet. I sat in the library, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of...
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