The Faded Masquerade
The ink in the pot has dried to a black crust, but I am writing this anyway, scratching the date into the margin with a rusted nail. It is the fourteenth of November, 1908, and the manor is dying around me, groaning in its sleep like a beast with a broken spine. I am Elias Thorne, and I am a liar, a thief, and a coward, though I suspect the last is the only one that truly matters. I need you to...
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