The Faded Masquerade
The train slowed. Whistles blew. Steam hissed. Clara stood. She held the jar. It was heavy. Glass. Cold. Dark liquid inside. A tincture. A remedy. Or a poison. The distinction was blurry. Her hands shook. Not from fear. From fatigue. She had been holding it for three days. Since the house. Since the meeting. Since the silence. The platform was wet. Rain slicked the concrete. Gray sky. Low...
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