The Wistful Petal
You stand in the center of the great hall, where the chandeliers hang like frozen stars that have forgotten how to burn, and you feel the weight of the gold plate in your hands, which is heavier than it should be, as if the metal has been infused with the accumulated sins of every guest who has ever sat at this table, and you are holding not a serving dish but a tombstone, a small, curved...
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