The Faded Guest
The clock ticked. It was a mechanical sound. Precise. Cold. Margaret sat in the chair. The wood creaked under her weight. She was sixty-four. Her hands were folded in her lap. They trembled. Not from cold. From exhaustion. The room was small. Industrial. Walls of gray brick. A single window. Glass panes thick and dirty. Outside, the city moved. Smokestacks belched vapor. The air smelled of coal...
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