The Wistful Letter
In the dream, the house was not a house but a throat, swallowing the light of the sun until only the grey, pulsing veins of the walls remained visible, and I stood in the center of that anatomical void, holding a letter that was heavier than stone, heavier than memory, heavier than the sum of every silence I had ever swallowed in the service of the living, while the air tasted of copper and old...
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