The Faded Masquerade
Khadija Mahfouz hauled the wet plaster across the floor, her knees grinding against the cold tile. The bucket groaned, a sharp sound that echoed in the empty hall. She was fifty-two, and her hands shook, but the trowel stayed true. The Masquerade Hall was a skeleton, ribs of wood showing through the peeling paint. She needed the roof fixed before the winter rains came. The council had said no....
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