The Faded Masquerade
The old mill stood at the edge of the river, a skeleton of stone and timber that had outlived the hands that built it. Elara knew every crack in its foundation. She knew the way the mortar wept in the rain and the specific hollow sound the floorboards made when the wind pressed against the shutters. For forty years, she had been its keeper. For forty years, she had mended its leaks and oiled...
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