The Faded Sutra
The feast in the Hall of Mirrors was a cacophony of silver and glass, a blinding assault on the senses that seemed to pulse in time with the feverish heat rising from the floorboards. Eleanor Whitmore sat at the head of the long table, her spine rigid as a larch, watching the dancers spiral in a dizzying, hypnotic waltz that defied the laws of gravity and common sense alike. The air was thick...
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