Anna looked at her sister. Looked at the door. Looked down at the green fabric, which had begun to weave itself around her thighs in soft, deliberate loops.
Her sister grabbed her wrist. The couch hummed louder. The room trembled. And Anna—Anna Ralphs—felt the fabric ripple beneath her, felt the slow, patient heartbeat of the thing she had been sitting on, and understood at last that she had never owned the couch. anna ralphs couch
On day forty-seven, her sister broke the door down. Anna looked at her sister