The repetition

One of the few things Sarah remembered about childhood holidays was the way the house murmured at night. Born and raised in a city, she had never known true dark, and once her grandmother had drawn the curtains and kissed her goodnight she had stared into the room, into where she remembered the corners being, waiting for sight to return. It never did.

With nothing to look at she had heard every creak, every ease, every shifting of timber and slate. Now, when she sat at the piano, the notes she played were the house’s, from all those years ago.

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