The Faded Masquerade
The door to the manor is not locked, but it is heavy. It resists your hand with a dull, wooden groan that echoes through the hollow hallways, a sound like a bone snapping in the dark. You know this weight. You have carried it for thirty years, lifting the latch of your own isolation every morning, stepping out into the cold air of the estate, and stepping back in before the sun fully crested...
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