The Distant Cartograph
The banquet hall in the estate of the White House was not built of stone, but of silence. It stretched out into a twilight that did not belong to any hour of the day, a vast, cathedral-like expanse of floorboards that had been sanded smooth by centuries of unseen feet. The air smelled of dust and old varnish, a dry, papery scent that coated the back of the throat. Here, in this liminal space...
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