The Wistful Crossroads
The house was breathing again. I could feel it in the dust motes that hung suspended in the shaft of afternoon light, drifting with a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the creaking of the floorboards beneath my feet. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; the days had lost their distinct edges, blurring into a single, continuous stretch of grey fatigue. I stood in the hallway, holding a...
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