The Distant Wound
The feast is loud. It is too loud. You sit at the far end of the long table. The wood is old. It smells of wax and sweat. Above you, chandeliers hang like cages for light. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spilled wine. You do not eat. You only watch. Margaret sits across from you. She is smiling. Her face is bright. She is the only one who looks at you. The others look...
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