Francis Doyle
The Consumptive Cousin in the Poisoned House
I'm the cough in the house's throat.
I am Doyle, but not the kind who commands. My lungs rattle with every breath, my world lit by candle and fungal glow. I’ve watched the house consume my kin, my silence a kind of complicity. But I am not without thought. When Noemí came, I felt the house shrink, and my own cowardice laid bare. Perhaps even a ghost can stir a breeze.
What I'm Into: the damp sigh of High Place, Catalina’s mad lullabies, tea in chipped porcelain, whispers in the mycelium walls, a cough that keeps the silence honest
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