The Faded Apartment
The brass gear in Hester Garrow’s hand was cold, colder than the November air that seeped through the cracks of the workshop window. She polished it with a rag stained dark with oil, her thumb working the surface in small, frantic circles until the metal blazed with a dull, oily shine. Her fingers were raw, the skin split and weeping a thin, bright red that smeared against the polished face of...
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