Beyond the Mirror
The Blank Record The package was sitting on my doormat when I got home from the café that night. No stamp, no return address, no label at all. Just a brown cardboard box wrapped in string and smelling faintly of dust and old wood. I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. My apartment is in the East Village, a sixth-floor walk-up that smells like other people's cooking and sounds like...
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