The Pale Door
The kettle screamed. It was a high, thin shriek that cut through the damp silence of the kitchen. Thomas listened. The water boiled over. He watched the steam curl into the cold air, a ghostly ribbon dissolving into nothing. He did not move. His hands hung at his sides, stiff with cold. The floorboards groaned under his weight. He was twelve. He felt the weight of the house pressing down on his...
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