The Final Seat
The air in New York in 1924 tasted of gin, expensive tobacco, and a desperate, frantic kind of hope. Edwin sat in the corner of the Blue Note, his tuxedo frayed at the cuffs, watching the dancers swirl in a blur of sequins and silk. To the world, this was the Jazz Age—a golden era of excess. To Edwin, it was a masquerade, a thin veil draped over a void that was slowly widening. Edwin had once...
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