The Faded Apartment
The brass key in my hand was warm, not from the friction of turning but from a heat that seemed to radiate from the metal itself, a faint, pulsing warmth that I had learned to ignore as a structural flaw in the old lock mechanism. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a mid-level archivist in the Ministry of Records, and I held that key because I needed to secure my permanent tenure before...
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