The Faded Masquerade
The rain didn’t fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey, heavy curtain that smelled of wet slate and the metallic tang of the river below, and I stood in the doorway of my father’s study, holding a book that felt less like paper and wood and more like a solid block of cold lead, my knuckles white against the spine, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts that fogged in the damp chill of the...
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