The Faded Paradox
The ceramic cup was warm. It sat on a mahogany desk in a room that had been sealed since 1974, yet the coffee inside was black, fresh, and steaming in the cold air of the West Wing. I held it, the heat seeping into my palms, and looked around the empty office. The dust was thick, a grey blanket over the papers, but the cup was clean. No dust on the rim. No dust on the saucer. Just the smell of...
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