The Faded Masquerade
The rain in Chicago did not wash the city clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the asphalt of the South Side into a mirror for the failing streetlights. Clara Vane stood before the iron gates of St. Jude’s, her coat soaked through, the fabric heavy with the weight of the water and the three years she had spent fighting a war no one else seemed to see. She was thirty years old, a...
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