The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-18 22:11:42 -

The Wistful Grid

The banquet hall of the Ministry of Textiles smelled of lavender and old sweat. It was a smell that settled into the pores, a heavy, floral fog that clung to the skin like a second, unwanted garment. Margaret sat at the long oak table, her hands folded neatly over her lap, her fingers white-knuckled around a napkin that had already begun to wilt. The room was bright, too bright, the chandeliers...

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