The Faded Attic
The invoice lay on the workbench, its edges curling slightly in the dry air, the ink a faded violet that seemed to recede as I tried to read it, and the figure at the bottom, three hundred and fifty pounds, stared back at me with the quiet insistence of a debt that had long since come due, a sum that represented not just the labor of my hands but the slow, grinding erosion of my sanity over the...
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