The Distant Affair
The banquet hall smells of burnt sugar and old copper, a thick, cloying atmosphere that clings to the back of your throat like a second skin, and you sit at the head of the long oak table, the wood worn smooth by decades of hands that have long since turned to dust, watching the steam rise from the porcelain bowls in front of you, each curl of vapor a ghost of the meal that is no longer there,...
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