The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-19 10:10:26 -

The sign on the door was peeling, the paint lifting in dry, curling strips like dead skin. It read WALKERS REST in letters that had once been gold but were now a sickly, bruised yellow. Margot stood before it, her boots caked in the red clay of the highway, the rain slicking her hair into dark, heavy ropes against her forehead. She had been walking for three days. Her knees ached with a dull,...

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