The Faded Masquerade
The chisel slips. You watch the sliver of wood fly across the workshop, a tiny, jagged comet against the dim, amber light of the afternoon. It lands in the corner, near the pile of shavings that smell of cedar and old sweat. You do not pick it up. You do not wipe your hands on your apron. You just stand there, the half-finished mask resting in your lap, its hollow eyes staring out at you with a...
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