The Wistful Atlas
The mold on the skirting board had grown a mouth by Tuesday, and it was wide enough to swallow the brass tacks of the family portrait. You stood in the kitchen, the smell of wet wool and rotting peat thick in your nose, watching the black filaments curl around the frame. It was not a random spreading, you had learned, but a deliberate, hungry thing, a growth that responded to the vibration of...
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