The Faded Root
The cufflink sits in the palm of your hand, a small, tarnished disc of silver that feels heavier than it should, its surface dull and pitted by the relentless, quiet decay that eats at everything in Lord Vane’s manor. You turn it over, watching the light catch the scratches you made last Tuesday when you dropped it, and you think about how the metal remembers every touch, every failure to...
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