The Faded Photograph
The house was dying. We could hear it. A creak in the rafters. A sigh from the floorboards. It sounded like a man trying to breathe through a broken rib. I was seven. My mother, Elara, sat by the window. She held a photograph. The glass was cracked. The image inside was fading. Just a ghost of a face. "Look, Thomas," she said. Her voice was thin. Like dry paper. I looked. The photo showed a...
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