The Golden Song
The storm broke the glass before the wind touched the house. It was not a metaphor. The window in the nursery shattered inward, a cascade of diamonds that sang a high, thin note in the dark. I stood there, holding the hem of my nightgown, watching the rain fill the hole in the world. Outside, the oak tree was moving. Not swaying. Walking. Its roots were tearing up from the earth like fingers...
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