The Faded Paradox
The name was not spoken so much as dragged across the gravel of the silence, a rough, abrasive sound that seemed to originate from the windowpane itself. "Margaret," it said, or perhaps I had only thought it, but the syllables landed in my chest with the weight of a physical blow, a summons I could not ignore. I am forty-two years old, a junior archivist at the Sterling & Vance accounting firm,...
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