The Faded Masquerade
You are holding the wrong end of the rope, Thomas, and you have been holding it that way for three years, standing in the mud with your boots sinking into the sludge of my father’s grave, pretending that the weight is something you can carry, something you can justify, something that does not smell of iron and old blood, something that does not taste of the copper pennies we used to chew when...
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