The Wistful Mirror
The house did not burn so much as it unfolded. One moment, the oak floorboards were cold under your feet, humming with the low-frequency vibration of the heating pipes; the next, the air tasted of ozone and burnt sugar, and the walls were breathing. You stood in the center of the foyer, your hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that followed the...
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