The Wistful Atlas
The banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and wet wool. It was a thick, suffocating scent, the kind that clung to the skin. We sat around a long oak table that groaned under the weight of silver and porcelain. The candles were tall tapers, their flames trembling in the draft from the open windows. Outside, the fog rolled in from the harbor, thick as milk. It swallowed the streetlamps one by...
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