overcooked

overcooked

practicing writing

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She crept down the stairwell, the faint sputtering of her torch echoed beside her. With each step her weariness grew, the cramped and musty basement was illuminated by a feeble yellow light. She halted at the last step and stretched her arm along whatever she couldn’t make out of the muddled room. The floorboard creaked with the faint scuttling of rats under old furniture, the dust enough to give ...