The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-20 12:22:33 -

The dream smelled of rotting lilies. I was standing in the garden of my childhood home, but the house was gone. Only the fence remained. It was made of white wood, splintered by rain and time. The roses were dead. Black thorns curled around the empty air. I knew this place. My bones knew it. My feet were bare and cold against the damp earth. I was seven years old. I wore a blue dress with a...

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