The Faded Portrait
The banquet hall of the University of St. Jude’s was not a place for the living, but a cathedral built for the ghosts of those who had once held power, and you stood in the center of the chandelier’s fractured light, your spine a rigid axis of steel and shame, while the air thickened with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old money, a perfume that clung to your skin like a...
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