The Distant Machine
The house was breathing. Not in the way a sleeping child breathes, soft and rhythmic, but in the way a lung fails. A long, shuddering inhale that pulled the air from the rooms, a dry, rattling exhale that sent dust motes dancing in the pale light. Margaret stood in the hallway. She held her daughter’s hand. They did not speak. They had stopped speaking days ago. The silence was thick. It...
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