I met the house once, for a short while, because that is what you do when the road narrows and curiosity presses. It did not give me answers. It offered me a map with one route erased and another added in invisible ink. It left me with a memory of a kitchen table that I could not place in any other house I had known and a small, complicated knot of silence in my throat as if some vowel had been taken out of my name.
It is called the Anchored Verge.