The Faded Apartment
The hand of Margaret Holloway was a thing of terrible architecture, a map of veins and knuckles that had outlived the softness of her youth. It sat upon the mahogany desk, fingers interlaced, waiting. The waiting was a physical weight, a pressure against the temples that threatened to split the skull open. Outside the window, the city hummed its low, indifferent song, a tapestry of neon and...
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