The Faded Sutra
The banquet hall is white. It is a blinding, sterile white. You stand at the head of the table. The chairs are empty, yet the air hums with the weight of ghosts who never arrived. The chandelier above you is a spider made of crystal and cold iron. It does not sway. It never sways. You are a man of the law. You are a soldier of the institution. You have worn the uniform for twenty years. The...
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