The Faded Masquerade
The elevator doors closed. The steel mirrored her face. It was a stranger’s face. Gray hair. Deep lines. She was forty-five. It felt like eighty. The building was new. Concrete and glass. Cold. It smelled of dust. And money. She was the new maintenance manager. Or so the board said. Her name was Clara. She wore a gray suit. It did not fit right. The shoulders were too wide. The sleeves were too...
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