At the open house my wife knuckles a beat into the walls. Didn't you ever want a hidden room? she asks. The realtor's lips disappear into a single line. My list says high ceilings! bay windows! but my wife always wants to explore the basement. Check the attic for ghosts, she calls from the stairs, I want a home with secrets. I climb the ladder, idly thumbing my ring. It's gotten looser lately, betraying the ashen skin beneath. I don't see anything, I shout. The realtor taps her foot. That's the point, says my wife. You have to feel it.
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