The Pale Garden
The chandelier above you does not swing; it trembles, a faint, arrhythmic shudder that seems less like a draft and more like the building itself holding its breath. You stand at the edge of the mahogany table, your hand resting on the cold, polished surface, feeling the vibration travel up through your knuckles, into the bone, into the marrow where time has settled like silt in a stagnant...
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