The Wistful Dinner
The server room in the basement of the Whitmore estate did not smell of dust, but of ozone and the sterile, sweet rot of overheating silicon, a scent that Margaret had come to associate with the particular variety of silence that follows a catastrophe. The air conditioning units hummed a low, monochromatic drone, a mechanical lullaby that vibrated in the floorboards and settled in the marrow of...
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