The Wistful Silence
The house holds its breath. You know this. You feel the pressure in your teeth, a dull ache that mirrors the silence of the corridors. It is a Tuesday. The light is thin and gray, filtering through the tall windows of the east wing. You are in the study. The air tastes of dust and old paper. You sit at the desk. It is mahogany. It has been here for a century. Your hands rest on the surface....
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