The Faded Apartment
The banquet hall was thick with the scent of roasted lamb and stale wine, the air heavy enough to chew on. We were gathered in the manor of Thomas Bradshaw, a place where the wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips that resembled dried skin, and the chandelier swayed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to breathe in time with the room’s pulse. I stood at the edge of the crowd, my hand...
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