The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-22 18:14:16 -

The mortar in the trowel had hardened into a grey rock, and I scraped it off with a knife, the metal biting into the stone. It was the third day of the solstice week, and the wind coming off the moor smelled of wet wool and rot. My brother, Thomas, lay in the infirmary below, his chest rising and falling with the shallow, rattling rhythm of a bird caught in a wire. I had twelve days left to...

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