The Wistful Letter
The hall is a cathedral of iron and gaslight, a beast of the industrial age with ribs of blackened steel and lungs that breathe out the warm, sulfurous scent of burning coal. You stand at the far end of the long banquet table, your hands resting on the polished mahogany, trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that has fallen over the room. The air is thick,...
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