The Pale Echo
The house was dying. That is the only way to say it. It was not rotting. It was not crumbling. It was simply leaving. The floorboards sighed under my weight, a dry, papery sound like old paper tearing. I stood in the center of the hallway. My shoes were wet. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the air still held the damp chill of the October afternoon. I held a small brass key in my left...
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