The Faded Root
The ink on the ledger had started to bleed into the paper again, a slow, dark seep that looked less like a stain and more like a bruise forming under the skin of the page. I sat at the desk in the study, the wood cold against my forearms, and watched the blackness spread from the entry dated 1998, where my father had recorded the final payment for the house, until it touched the margin and...
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