The Wistful Skyline
The heavy oak doors of the Whitmore estate groaned open, admitting a tide of smoke and laughter that seemed to press against the very bones of the house, a dense, suffocating warmth that clung to the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany banisters where the brass fixtures reflected the frantic, dancing flames of the hundred candles burning in their sconces. It was the season of the harvest,...
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