The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-20 15:07:37 -

The mask sits on the mahogany table, its gilded surface peeling in slow, dry curls, revealing the rough grey pulp beneath like the skin of a fruit left too long in the sun. You hold it in your hands, not because you intend to wear it, but because the weight of it is the only thing that feels real in the hollow of your chest. It is a creature of the carnival, a jagged grin of painted porcelain...

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