Her face burned. She had never told anyone about the dreams—the ones where warm fingers traced her collarbone and a voice like velvet promised her the world. She had woken from those dreams feeling guilty and electric, pressing her thighs together in the dark.
Upstairs, the porcelain figurines wept tiny, silent tears. lisey sweet pure taboo
But one August night, with rain hammering the roof and the house groaning like an old animal, she heard the sound. A soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tapping coming from behind the basement door. Her face burned
“Someone who remembers when you used to leave milk and cookies by the furnace for the ‘house mouse.’ You were six. You wore a nightgown with ducks on it.” the porcelain figurines wept tiny