The Wistful Show
The feast was loud. It was a roar of silver and clinking glass, a sea of laughter that swallowed the quiet corners of the room. Margaret stood by the window, her hand resting on the cold pane. The glass was thin. It hummed under her palm. She held the vial. It was small, no bigger than her thumb. Inside, a dark liquid swirled, thick as oil, slow as time. It was the only quiet thing in the...
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