The Faded Apartment
Vane, you’re late. Magistrate Harrow did not raise his voice, but the words landed with the flat, final weight of a gavel striking wood. Elias Vane stood in the center of the office, his coat still damp from the morning’s mist, and felt the heat of the iron key seeping through the wool of his pocket. He was thirty years old, a man who had spent the last decade cataloging other people’s pasts in...
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