The Distant Journey
You are not entirely human, though you wear the shape of a man with the same ease you wear your clothes. This is the secret that rots in the marrow of your days, a truth so heavy it bends the light around you. You live in a house that is less a home and more a cell, a place of high ceilings and dust motes dancing in the slant of afternoon sun. The air is still, thick with the scent of old paper...
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