The Faded Apartment
The shrapnel did not sing as it tore through the windowpane of the fourth-floor apartment, a jagged, silent scream of metal that shattered the illusion of safety and spilled glass across the carpet like a field of frozen, weeping stars. Arthur Pendelton, a man whose face had long since surrendered its youthful sharpness to the soft, yielding contours of a life lived in quiet observation, stood...
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