The Faded Apartment
The basement archives of the Sterling Hotel smelled of damp wool and the sweet, cloying rot of the *Penicillium viridescens*, a mold that thrived only in the shadows of the building’s oldest foundation stones. I was forty-two years old, a master pastry chef whose hands had shaped ten thousand laminated doughs, yet my entire existence had narrowed to the cultivation of this single, decaying...
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