The Faded Masquerade
Thorne. Say it again, louder. The words hit the wallpaper and died, absorbed into the plaster before they could echo back. You stand in the center of the library, the floorboards cold and gritty under your boots, and you try to speak to the empty room. Your voice is a whisper, forced by the house’s peculiar hunger for sound. It has been this way for three years, since the winter the beams...
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