The Faded Apartment
The water came up from the basement not with a roar, but with a wet, sucking sigh, a sound like a mouth pulling away from a glass after a long, desperate drink. Arthur Penhaligon stood on the second-floor landing of the crumbling Victorian row house on Sycamore Street, holding a dripping rag against his forehead, and watched the brown sludge rise past the doormat, past the threshold, and into...
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