The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-20 07:59:46 -

The banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and ozone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad dream. I sat at the head of the long, mahogany table, my fingers trembling as I held a fork that felt heavier than lead. Around me, the guests did not speak in words. They spoke in the rustle of silk, in the clink of crystal against porcelain, in the wet, tearing sound of fruit being...

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