The Wistful Silence
The shattered glass of the chandelier did not fall in a single cascade, but in a slow, suspended drift, like snow that had forgotten how to melt, hanging in the stale, candle-lit air of the Grand Hall before it finally struck the polished floor with a sound that was less a crash and more a collective gasp of the building’s bones. Margaret Holloway stood at the center of this frozen apocalypse,...
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