The Faded Masquerade
The town of Blackridge had always believed in masks. Not the porcelain and velvet things that hung in attics, powdered and crumbling, but the quieter sort—the way the mill workers masked their exhaustion behind cheerful nods, how the vicar masked doubt behind certainty, how even the rain itself masked the hills in grey wool. The annual November masquerade was merely the most honest of their...
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