The Faded Masquerade
The rain does not fall so much as it is pressed against the windows of the institute, a grey, persistent hand seeking to force its way into the warmth of your study where the air is thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that has begun to cling to the walls since the last storm. You are standing before the glass case, your reflection a ghostly overlay on the...
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