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Summary
The porcelain shards at the ravenette’s feet hardly looked like his signature smile anymore. The green cloak he always wore was stained in red, forest tone hardly visible under the crimson.
There was no rise and fall to his chest, no tea-kettle wheezes, no sly comments, no hugs, and no warmth.
Only a pale body, propped up against the wall.
or
What if the festival had succeeded?
