The Pale Path
The receipt lay on the kitchen table, the ink still wet and smelling faintly of turpentine and old paper, a stark white rectangle against the scratched wood. I stared at the line item: *Porcelain vase, Meissen, 18th century, one (1), price: $0.00, status: Loaned.* My hands trembled, not from cold, though the apartment was freezing, but from the sheer, vibrating tension of the last six months. I...
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