The Wistful Mountain
The house died on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate, as Tuesdays are the most mundane of days, the days when the world grinds its gears in silence, unaware that the sky has cracked open above it. I was sitting in the library, the room that had always served as the anchor of my existence, when the walls began to breathe. It was not a metaphor. The plaster, pale and cracked with the age of three...
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