Three weeks after we buried Michael, the house finally blinked first. Grief had already turned time into wet plaster, sagging and hardening in strange places, but the night the garage door rolled open at two a.m., the world snapped sharp. His voice in the hallway, the scrape of boxes dragging themselves, the wrong fold in a rag—each small violation stacked like lumber in my throat until I understood: I wasn’t alone in this hous… Continues…
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