The Faded Attic
The dust in the attic did not sit; it hung, suspended in the slanting beams of afternoon light like a congregation of forgotten prayers. I moved through it with the careful, deliberate gait of a man who has learned that every step forward is a theft from the past. My name is Arthur Vane, and I have lived in this house for forty years, yet I was a stranger to the room where my father kept his...
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