The Faded Dust
The house was dying, you knew this with a certainty that felt less like observation and more like a physical ache in the marrow, a slow grinding of teeth against the silence of the winter. It was not a violent death, not a crack in the foundation or a collapse of the roof, but a slow erosion, a fading of the spirit that had once held the beams together. You were twelve, or perhaps thirteen,...
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