The Faded Masquerade
The ledger weighed four pounds, two ounces, and a specific kind of guilt that Elara Vane had spent six months trying to ignore. She counted the pages again, sliding her thumb over the cracked spine, feeling the grit of old dust and fresh ink. Forty-two years old, and her hands still remembered the texture of every surface she touched, a habit born from a childhood of mending and measuring. In...
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