The Wistful Letter
The banquet was not a celebration but a containment field, a sprawling, cloying architecture of crystal and roasted duck that held the breath of the house in a state of suspended, viscous horror, and in the center of it all, standing rigid on the polished oak floor while the silverware clattered against the porcelain like the frantic knocking of a trapped animal, was the boy, who was not a boy...
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