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I fumbled with the bolt, my hands shaking so badly it took three attempts to slide it home. Locked in. Safe. As if a deadbolt could keep out a hallucination.
My flat. My sanctuary. It was a testament to a life lived on minimum wage.
A cramped, one-bedroom affair above a kebab shop, which meant the whole place smelled faintly of garlic sauce and regret, especially on weekends.
The living room was dominated by two things: a lumpy, second-hand sofa that had probably witn ...
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