The Faded Masquerade
The sleet hits the glass like handfuls of gravel, each impact a small, sharp accusation. You are Elias, fifty-two, and your hands are already trembling, not from the cold, but from the weight of the satchel against your hip. Inside, nestled in velvet that is slowly turning to gray dust, lies the porcelain mask. It is a Venetian commedia piece, a figure of pure, mocking joy, and it is the only...
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