The Faded Attic
The van smelled of damp wool and old coffee, a suffocating mix that clung to the back of Marcus Thorne’s throat as he navigated the gravel road that cut through the skeletal forest. The headlights cut twin tunnels of pale light into the darkness, illuminating only the immediate, jagged branches that whipped against the windshield like frantic fingers, while the rest of the world remained a void...
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