The Faded Root
The brass key in your hand is cold, the metal biting into the calluses of your palm, a texture that feels less like metal and more like the dried skin of a thing that has been dead for a very long time. You stand in the hallway of the Victorian house in rural Vermont, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper, the silence of the place pressing against your eardrums with a weight...
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