The Faded Root
The silk was cold against my palm, colder than the attic air, and it tightened around my fingers as if I had gripped a living thing. I was cataloging the estate of the late Mrs. Vane, a task I had volunteered for in hopes that my diligence might finally convince the Department that I was stable, that I was not the obsessive, broken man they whispered about in the break room. The glove lay on a...
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