The Distant Promise
The banquet hall smelled of rot and lavender. Miles stood at the edge of the table. The air was thick, stagnant, heavy with the scent of overripe fruit and the metallic tang of old blood. He wore his best suit. It was gray. It was stained. He did not wipe it. He held the ledger in his hands. The leather cover was cold. The pages were thin. They whispered when he turned them. He was an engineer....
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