The Faded Masquerade
The brass key hung heavy in my palm, cold as river stone. I held it up to the grey light of the kitchen window, turning it over, watching the tarnish catch the dimness. It was the key to the cellar door, the one I had not used in three years, not since Thomas came home in a box and the house went quiet. My hands were shaking. They always shook now, a tremor that started in the knuckles and...
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