The Faded Masquerade
The mirror on the vanity table does not reflect you. It reflects the room, the dusty chandelier, the heavy velvet drapes that have not been drawn in thirty years. But it does not reflect your face. You stand before it, your hand hovering over the silver frame, and the absence is a cold, hard thing. It is a shard of glass that has been swept from the floor, leaving only a smooth, unblemished...
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