The Faded Masquerade
The fresh coat of vermilion paint on the iron gates of St. Jude’s Chapel was a wound in the morning fog, a violent scar against the grey rot of the stone, and you stood before it with your hands trembling not from the cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the document in your coat pocket. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man whose life has been measured in footnotes and faded...
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