One afternoon, you pressed your ear to the largest crack—the original one, now a gaping seam in the bedroom. From inside, a sound like a zipper opening. Not metal on metal, but flesh. Skin parting. You pulled back, but something tugged from the other side. Not a hand. A direction .
By month’s end, vertical lines had colonized every room. They ran like rivers down the kitchen tiles, bisected the bathtub, traced the spine of every book on your shelf. You measured them each morning, a ritual you didn’t confess to anyone. Three millimeters. Seven. A finger’s width. The house was splitting in two, and you along with it. vertical cracks
Not in the wall.