The Faded Apartment
The cold in the house is not a temperature, but a physical weight, a dense atmosphere that settles into the marrow and calcifies the joints, a specific kind of dampness that smells of rotting peat and old iron. You stand in the center of the hallway, your boots heavy on the floorboards, listening to the rhythm of your own breathing, a metronome counting down the seconds until the next pulse of...
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