The Faded Attic
Copenhagen’s inner streets groaned under the weight of the excise men’s boots, the linoleum in the workhouse dining hall slick with grease and unpaid debts, the air thick with the drone of the power station that never slept. I am Harald Gundersen, twelve years old, and I need to save my father’s lungs before the dawn. The black rot eats him by the inch, a cough that shakes the plaster from the...
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