The joists sag, as though even wood can taste fatigue. Shadows cling to the lintels, dragging their green patina like old grief. A silence built of ennui, pressed into the grain of every door, hums low, a fugue for the bones that hold this frame. Rust curls inward on the hinges, muttering a slow betrayal. I stand still, feeling the marrow ache of walls that want to fold. They let the weight press the silence through the frame until they forget how to hold themselves up.
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