The Echoes of Broken Faith
The champagne in the crystal flute was a pale, shimmering gold, but to Arthur, it tasted of nothing. He stood at the edge of the ballroom, the roar of the 1920s New York night swirling around him like a colorful, chaotic storm. The jazz band was playing a frantic rhythm, a desperate attempt to outrun the silence that had followed him since the trenches of France. He wore a tuxedo that fit him...
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