The Faded Masquerade
The building did not burn, though it felt to Elara that the air itself was caught in a slow, suffocating exhalation, a thickening of the atmosphere that pressed against the eardrums and turned the light in the corridors into a bruised, sickly yellow. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, for time had begun to slip through the cracks of the institution like water through a cracked basin, the...
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