The Faded Apartment
The lease agreement lay on the kitchen table, the paper thin and yellowed, smelling of damp wool and old ink. I read it twice, the words blurring slightly in the grey light of the London afternoon, before I signed my name with a steady hand. Thirty years old, a Sergeant in the Royal Military Police, and I was trading my dignity for four walls that wept. The landlord, a man whose name was...
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