The Faded Masquerade
The bell rang three times. The sound was flat. It hung in the cold air of the mill. It did not echo. It died. Elara stood by the wheel. Her hands were steady. The wood was dry. The grain ran straight. She did not look up. She worked. The loom clacked. The shuttle flew. The thread pulled taut. It snapped. She replaced it. The mill was old. The stone was black. The water was dark. It rushed under...
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