The Faded Portrait
The first hour was spent counting the flaking lead white, weighing each chip against the grain of the scale until the number matched the invoice. I had thirty years of practice in this meticulous inventory, a skill that kept my hands steady when my mind was not. The smell of the East Wing struck me before I saw the room: a thick, cloying mix of turpentine, old varnish, and the damp, mineral...
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