The Golden Cellar
The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate was a cavern of mahogany and dust, illuminated by the harsh, buzzing hum of fluorescent tubes that had not been replaced in decades. It was a celebration of tenure, a ritual of recognition for Dr. Arthur Hale, a man whose face had begun to resemble the parchment pages of the journals he had spent forty years editing. The air smelled of stale roasting meat...
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