a faint tapping sound arose in the wee hours of the morning.. . like the sound of someone, something pounding rapidly on plastic tiles.. . and then a slight hesitation. a pause. the sound of a chair being moved backward and forward echoed within the walls of the small rectangular partition that is at the topmost floor of the building. noises. like muffled footsteps. it stopped. plop, plop.. . like someone, something dropping a good-sized rock into a pool. and then another. and then another. the clickety-clank of cutlery follows. metal to metal. stirring. the constant droning sound of a machine nearby seemed so distant. cold air floated heavily around. then the door squeaked open.. . a rush of air.. . footsteps again. this time in a hurried manner. fading. . . fading.. .
have you seen the ghost of focus penthouse?
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