The Faded Masquerade
The letter lay on the oak desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry air of the office. It was a notice of termination, signed by Dr. Vane, citing "unstable temperament" and a "failure to maintain archival integrity." I read it twice, the words blurring into a grey smear that matched the fog pressing against the windowpanes. Outside, the industrial city of Ashgrove churned, a beast of iron and...
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