You don’t read RUN, ANGEL, YOUR HOUSE IS BURNING.
It stalks you.
It waits behind your daily routines, breathing down your neck, reminding you that the world you built is made of paper and the match has already been lit.
Vlad Neagoe’s novel is a psychological wildfire— a story that tears through memory, guilt, desire, and the fragile architecture of identity.
If you want comfort, buy a pillow. If you want a book that burns its way into your bloodstream, this is the one.
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