The Faded Apartment
The plaster gave way not with a violent crack but with a long, sighing exhalation, a slow disintegration that turned the ceiling of the fourth-floor office into a shower of white dust, coating the mahogany desk, the leather-bound ledgers, and the face of Arthur Penhaligon in a fine, suffocating veil. It was a Tuesday, the kind of gray, lightless day that seemed to press against the windows of...
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