PREVIEW

... armchair in the living room, the fabric warm beneath me, like it had soaked in the lives of those who lived here. I placed my hands on my knees, but they wouldn’t stop fidgeting. My fingers twisted together. Untwisted. Rested. Twitched again.

The photos were watching me. I could feel their gaze.

And the silence returned—deep, weighty, crawling under my skin. It wasn’t a comfortable silence. It was the kind that lingers in old houses after something major had happened. Or before ...

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