The Pale Circus
The coughing fit stops only when the blood hits the floorboards. It is a thick, rusty sound, wet and heavy, pooling in the cracks of the attic. I am twenty-four years old, or I was, before the fever started eating the years out of me. My name is Elara Vane. I used to be an acrobat, a thing of wire and light, but now I am a ghost in a damp industrial loft, shaking so hard my teeth click...
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