The Wistful Asylum
The air tasted of copper and ozone. It was a heavy, metallic tang that coated the tongue. Silas stood in the center of the Great Hall. The ceiling vaulted high above, lost in shadow. Rows of long tables stretched into the distance. Hundreds of chairs sat empty. Waiters moved like ghosts in white uniforms. They placed plates of silver before the empty seats. Silas checked his watch. The glass...
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