The Faded Photograph
The fire starts in the basement. You know this before the smoke curls up through the floorboards, before the heat warps the air in the hallway. You know it because the house is dying. It has been dying for thirty years, a slow, structural decay that mirrors the slow, cellular decay within your own chest. You are standing in the foyer, holding a glass of water that has gone still. The ice has...
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