The Faded Masquerade
Act I There is a specific arithmetic to silence in a place where the water is frozen solid, a calculation that subtracts the wind from the world until only the creaking of the ice remains, and I have spent twenty-three years of my life listening to that subtraction, standing at the edge of the marsh where the mud turns to black glass under the frost. I am Tadeusz Nowakowski, and I am a border...
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