The Faded Masquerade
The rain against the windowpane of the archives room did not sound like water; it sounded like static, a low-frequency hum that vibrated in the fillings of Elias Thorne’s teeth. He sat at the heavy oak desk, the wood dark and slick with the dampness that seemed to seep from the very stones of the institution, a building that had no name on the outside but was known internally only as The Hall....
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