The Faded Sutra
The house is breathing. That is the only way to describe it, the way the oak floorboards expand and contract with a rhythm that does not match your pulse, a slow, tectonic groan that vibrates through the soles of your shoes and settles into the marrow of your shin bones. You are standing in the center of the living room, holding a glass of water that has gone warm and stale, and you are waiting...
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