The Faded Masquerade
The dream was always the same. Elias stood in a room made of white bone, and his father’s face was being stitched into a porcelain mask by hands that did not exist. The needle was black, the thread was wet. When he woke, the mask was in his hands, cold and cracked. He held it tight, the porcelain biting into his palms. He was twelve years old, an orphan, and the only thing he owned was this...
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