The Faded Masquerade
The letter lay on the workbench, its cream paper brittle as dry leaves, the ink faded to a brown that matched the dust coating the floorboards. You read the deadline for the third time, the mayor’s signature a sharp, angular scrawl that felt less like a name and more like a threat. The commission was for a Venetian porcelain mask, a piece so delicate it seemed to breathe in the stagnant air of...
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