The Faded Masquerade
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a gray curtain drawn tight against the windows of the moving train, blurring the landscape into a smear of wet earth and iron. You are sitting in the corner of a compartment that smells of damp wool and old coffee, your fingers wrapped around a cup that has gone cold an hour ago. You are leaving. That is the only thing that is true. The departure is a...
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