She refused to believe in ghosts. Everyone she loved swore on the existence of the spectral and the phantasmic, their invisible certainty wedging her farther apart. At last she retreated to an island, on which leaned a tumbledown house, inside of which hung mirrors heavy with time’s callous touch, in front of which she practiced existing. It was a weary process, years in the making, defining her presence in an unseen place.



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