The Faded Apartment
The key is in your hand, cold and heavy, a block of iron that feels less like a tool and more like a verdict. You stand before the door of Number 4, the wood swollen with the dampness of the autumn night, the grain dark and slick under your fingers. It is a small town, the kind of place where the cobblestones are worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, where the air always tastes of wet stone...
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