The Faded Masquerade
The rain did not fall so much as it stood, a vertical curtain of grey water that blurred the boundaries between the wet cobblestones of the Market Square and the stone faces of the buildings that leaned in like conspirators, and I was standing there, in the middle of this relentless downpour, holding the handle of my umbrella with a grip so tight my knuckles had turned the color of old bone,...
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