The Wistful Petal
The banquet hall is not a room but a suspension, a vast and silent sphere of amber light where the air tastes of copper and old paper, and you sit at the head of a table that stretches into an infinite, foggy horizon, surrounded by figures who are not quite solid, their faces blurring at the edges like wet charcoal sketches, all of them watching you with a hunger that is not for the food before...
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