The Faded Apartment
The bakery died in a scream of glass and flour. It was not an explosion, not in the way the news would later describe it with dry, clinical detachment. It was a shattering, a violent unmaking of the familiar that left the air thick with the scent of burnt sugar and ozone. Margaret stood in the doorway of her apartment, three floors above the ruin, watching the white dust settle over the...
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