The Faded Attic
Leo’s hands were black. He scrubbed them under the tap in the bathroom, the water running cold and thin, but the ink stayed. It sat in the whorls of his fingerprints, dark and wet, like a bruise that had decided to stay. He looked at the water swirling down the drain. It carried nothing away. He dried his hands on a towel that was already damp, his heart hammering a dull, heavy rhythm against...
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