The Faded Masquerade
The chapel of St. Jude stood at the end of the lane, a structure of grey stone that had long since surrendered its sharp edges to the relentless, grinding patience of the moss and the ivy. It was not a ruin, not yet, but it was a place where the light seemed to enter differently, thicker, as if the air itself had accumulated a certain weight over the centuries. I sat on the cold stone bench in...
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