The Wistful Grid
The feast was held in the Great Hall of the Athenaeum, a room that smelled of beeswax, old paper, and the specific, metallic tang of anxiety that settles into the carpet when too many minds are crammed into a space designed for silence, and I sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, watching the candlelight tremble against the high windows, thinking about how it is a peculiar kind of...
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