The Faded Apartment
The soup was cold, a thick, murky sludge of turnip and bone that sat in a chipped ceramic bowl on the table between them, steam no longer rising from its surface to blur the air but having long since condensed into a thin, oily film that caught the grey light of the window. Thomas sat opposite his father, Arthur, who did not look up from his own bowl, which he held with both hands as if the...
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