The Faded Photograph
The wall behind your desk is breathing. You have told yourself this for three weeks, but the sound has changed. It is no longer a subtle expansion of plaster, a settling of timber in the October damp. It is a rhythmic, wet inhalation, synchronized with the ticking of the mantel clock, and it stops only when you stop writing. Your name is Arthur Vane, you are thirty years old, and you are a...
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