The Faded Apartment
The needle bit into the velvet, pulling a thread of gold that did not snap, but stretched with a viscosity that defied the tensile strength of any fiber I had cataloged in thirty years of archival work. My hands, trembling with a palsy that the physicians had kindly termed "advanced neural degeneration" but which I knew was a hollowing out of the self, pressed the hem of my father’s doublet...
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