The Wistful Silence
The smell of burnt sugar is the first thing to break the silence. It is a cloying, acrid sweetness that clings to the back of your throat, a physical weight that settles in the lungs alongside the dust of the library. You are standing in the center of the drawing room of the Ashworth estate, your hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, vibrating intensity of the moment. The year is...
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