The Wistful Petal
The house did not merely stand at the end of the lane; it hovered, a vast and bruised architecture of stone and shadow that seemed to breathe with a slow, tectonic rhythm, its foundations sinking imperceptibly into the wet earth as if the ground itself were tired of holding it up, and I, standing in the kitchen with my small hands gripping the cold iron handle of the door, understood that the...
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