The Faded Masquerade
You stand in the grey light of the archive. The air is dry. It smells of dust and old paper. You are not a student. You are not a historian. You are a keeper. Your title is Senior Archivist. Your name is Thomas Bradshaw. You have been here for twenty years. The walls are stone. The windows are high. They let in thin slivers of winter light. You count the boxes. Box 402. Box 403. Box 404. The...
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