The Faded Masquerade
The ink in my journal has begun to bleed into the grain of the paper, a dark, spreading stain that mirrors the soot clinging to my fingers, yet I must record the facts before the memory of the steam fades into the fog of grief. I am Elara Vance, thirty-four years of age, and for the past two decades I have served as the textile inspector for the Ashworth Mill, a position that required a...
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