The Faded Masquerade
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended curtain of gray mist that turned the cobblestones of the old town into mirrors of broken slate. I stood before the shop window, my breath fogging the glass, watching the reflection of a man who looked less like a traveler and more like a ghost who had forgotten how to leave. Inside, the light was amber and thick, smelling of beeswax and...
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