The Faded Masquerade
The rain does not fall so much as it presses against the glass, a persistent, grey hand demanding entry into the world of the Harrowgate estate. You are standing in the corridor, holding the umbrella, but you are not really holding it. You are holding the silence. The air smells of wet wool and the faint, metallic tang of the old pipes that run through the walls, humming with the low,...
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