The Faded Photograph

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2026-08-17 12:06:30 -

The ballroom smells of stale roses and sweat. You stand at the edge of the floor. The music is a low, grinding thrum, like a steam engine turning over in a dead field. You are not here to dance. You are here to watch. Your coat is buttoned to the throat. The brass buttons catch the gaslight. They look like small, cold eyes. You count them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Seven buttons....

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