The Faded Apartment
The dream had no walls, only a vast, suspended ceiling of white plaster that seemed to breathe with a slow, rhythmic expansion, pressing down on the air with the weight of an unspoken judgment, and beneath this oppressive canopy stood Silas Vane, a man whose hands were stained not with ink or oil but with the ghost of a thousand signatures he had never intended to sign, and he was speaking, or...
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