The Dust of Manhattan
The apartment on the 42nd floor of the Upper East Side was a study in subtraction. There were no paintings on the walls, no rugs on the hardwood floors, and no photographs of people who had once been loved. Miles lived in a space of absolute, curated emptiness. He was a retired archivist for the City of New York, a man who had spent forty years cataloging the debris of a million lives, and in...
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