The Faded Masquerade
"Did you see the leaves, Thomas? They are not falling. They are climbing back up the vine." Margaret’s voice was a dry rattle, the sound of parchment tearing in a cold room, yet it carried the weight of a command that had not been issued in decades. Thomas stood in the center of the drawing room, his boots still caked with the mud of the trenches, the earth of Flanders clinging to the leather...
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