The Faded Paradox
The letter sat on the mahogany desk. It was thin. White. Unmarked. Marcus held it. His hands trembled. He was a forger. A master. He made things that did not exist. He made them look real. He had done it for years. He did it for the gallery. He did it for the collectors. He did it for the money. He did it for the respect he could never earn as an artist. He looked at the letter. He did not open...
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