The Faded Masquerade
The dream began not with a sound, but with the weight of a single, iridescent wing resting against the boy’s cheek. It was cold, like a stone pulled from a winter stream, and it did not belong to the air. Walter opened his eyes. The room was dim, the grey light of an early autumn morning filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. He was seven years old, small and pale, and in his hands he...
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