The Wistful Show
The house breathes. You feel it first in the walls, a low, rhythmic expansion that presses against your palms like the flank of a sleeping horse. It is not a metaphor. The timber swells. The plaster cools. You have owned this place for three days, and in three days, you have learned that the house is hungry. You are not a man who believes in ghosts. You are a man who believes in debt. The...
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