The Wistful Voyage
The hall is vast and smells of beeswax and stale wine, a scent that has soaked into the velvet curtains and the oak floorboards over centuries, yet you are aware only of the sudden, piercing silence that falls when the last note of the harpsichord dies in the air, leaving you suspended in a bubble of anticipation that feels less like waiting and more like a held breath before a scream. You...
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