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Milkbank House. Uncle Rhys gave me this.

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He said everyone should have somewhere to put things that don't go anywhere else. He said it like it was nothing, like he handed journals to children every day, but I don't think he does. He gave it to me specifically. I'm going to try to deserve that.

I've been here eight years and I'm only now writing any of it down. I'll try to catch up.

The mansion is the largest building I have ever been inside. I used to think this was true of all buildings until we went on a public appearance at seven and I saw that most buildings are not like this at all. Most buildings have ceilings you can touch if someone lifts you. This one has ceilings that feel like weather.

There are rooms I haven't been in yet. I have been here eight years and there are still rooms. I think about this sometimes — that the house is still giving itself to me slowly, in pieces, and hasn't run out.

Mom made soup tonight. The same soup she always makes, in the same bowl, at the same time. I find this comforting in a way I can't fully explain. She is always exactly where she is supposed to be. There is something restful about that when everything else is variable.

The father watched me at dinner. I caught him looking and he didn't look away. He just — continued, evenly. Like I was a column of figures he was checking over. I looked back until he moved on. I don't know what I was trying to prove.

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