The Faded Masquerade
The chandeliers of the Astoria Hall hang like suspended galaxies of cut crystal, refracting the amber light of the gas jets into a thousand fractured shards that dance upon the white tablecloths. You stand at the edge of the sea of bodies, a figure cut from silence while the room thrums with the low, percussive hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware against porcelain. The air is...
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