The Faded Apartment
The door to the fourth-floor apartment did not open; it dissolved. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of gray day where the light seems to be held back by a heavy, woolen blanket, and Margaret Holloway stood on the landing with her hand hovering in the air, waiting for the wood to yield. Instead, the grain of the oak swirled like water in a sink, turning pale and translucent until the...
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