The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-19 16:11:58 -

The fog rolled in from the harbor, thick and gray, smelling of brine and old iron. It swallowed the docks. It swallowed the streetlamps. It swallowed me. I stood on the pier, my collar turned up against the damp chill. My name is Arthur. Or it was. Names are heavy things. They drag at the ankles. I was a clerk. I counted ledgers. I stamped papers. I lived in a small room above a chandler’s shop...

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