The Wistful Throne
The oak table in the center of the living room was a monolith of dark, polished wood that seemed to absorb the light from the chandelier, and you sat at its head, your hands resting flat on the surface, feeling the faint, almost imperceptible vibration that hummed beneath the grain, a vibration that had been there for three hundred years, ever since your great-grandfather first brought it out...
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