The Faded Masquerade
The iron key sat in my pocket like a stone. It was cold. It was heavy. It was the only thing I owned that felt real. The rest of me was a ghost, drifting through the fog that hung low over the harbor of Blackwood. The town smelled of brine and rust. The air was thick with the exhaust of the new locomotives that hissed along the tracks, spitting steam into the grey morning. I walked. My boots...
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