The Faded Paradox
Act I Did she really think the ink would hold? Rosaria D'Angelo stood on the porch of the ancestral villa, the stolen key cold and heavy in her fist. She was twelve, sharp-featured and pale, watching the dust settle on the cobblestones below. The village of Portici lay in the dry cold that preserved everything, a stillness that felt less like peace and more like a held breath. The D'Angelo name...
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