The Faded Masquerade
The knife is in your hand. It is not yours. It is old. The steel is dark. It weeps rust. You grip it. Your palm is slick. With sweat. And blood. The rain falls. Hard. On the cobblestones. On the mud. On your shoulders. You are in the market. At night. Or maybe dawn. The light is grey. And thin. There is a man. In front of you. He is tall. His coat is torn. At the hem. He holds a lantern. The...
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