The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-21 10:55:38 -

The soup was cold. I watched the fat congeal on the surface. White. Thick. A skin forming over the broth. It looked like skin. My own skin, peeling away in the dark. "Thomas," my mother said. She did not look up from her needle. The thread pulled tight. A thin white line against the dark wool of her sleeve. "I am here, Mother." "Is it cold?" "Yes." She nodded. A small, dry motion. Like a bird...

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