Meg Murry’s House

The rain is dashing at the windows and the wind is picking at the skylight glass and making it moan, and howling around  house. Every once in a while I can feel the whole apartment sway.

And if I don’t pay close attention I can almost believe that if I open the door, I will find the dark and narrow attic staircase, and if I head downstairs Charles Wallace will be eating a sandwich, a double pot of milk warming on the stove for cocoa.

I can almost believe in a black dog named Fortinbras and a beautiful mother with violet eyes.

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