The Faded Masquerade
The silk mask lay in its velvet case on the mantelpiece, a thing of faded crimson and tarnished gold that had hung in the Vane family study since before the war, a silent witness to the quiet rot of their lineage. You were forty years old, Arthur Vane, and the weight of that silence had begun to press against your ribs with the force of a physical blow, a pressure that no amount of tea or...
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