The Faded Masquerade
The jar weighed four pounds, six ounces, and the cold was already settling into the marrow of your bones like wet sand. You counted the miles on your fingers as you walked, a habit from the garrison when the boredom was worse than the work, but here, on the frozen track to Oakhaven, the counting was a prayer, a way to keep the rhythm of your steps from turning into the rhythm of your cough. The...
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