The Faded Attic
The fire had not yet reached the rafters, but the heat was already a physical weight, pressing against the soles of your boots as you stood in the center of the attic. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you had come up here to sell the house, to trade the wood and stone of your childhood for the sterile, fluorescent hope of a surgical ward in Denver where your daughter, Clara, lay waiting...
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