The Wistful Silence
The fire starts in the basement. It is a small fire at first, fed by old newspapers and dry oak, but it eats with the hunger of a thing that has been starved for too long. You watch it from the top of the stairs, holding a glass of cold water, your knuckles white. The heat rises in waves, licking the back of your neck. You are in the palace, or what is left of it. The grand foyer is open to the...
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