by Karen Shepherd Through open doors, a waft has found an in,an entry point, a path to hidden roomsabandoned years ago. The air, so stale,holds sleeping ghosts that hang from ceiling beamsadorned with words and webs and dried bouquets.It’s not the breeze that makes them gently sway.A restlessness has been here, waiting. Lightwas needed to be shed, to break the Read More