The Faded Apartment
The key was heavier than a key should be, and that was the first thing I noticed when Julian Voss handed it to me on the bus from Portobello to Camden. It was a brass key, worn smooth on the bow where generations of thumbs had worried it into an oval of surrender. The teeth were cut in a pattern I could not read, neither modern pin-tumbler nor old warded, something in between, or perhaps...
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