The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-18 23:10:52 -

The oak tree stood in the center of the courtyard. It was old. Its bark was rough. It had been there since the house was built. Maybe longer. I do not know. I was not there. I was never there. Not really. I am the steward. I keep the books. I count the grain. I watch the clock. The house is old. The walls are thick. They are made of stone. They are cold. The air is dry. It smells of dust. It...

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