The Distant Machine
The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate, a sprawling Victorian relic of dark oak and dust-laden velvet that had swallowed the sound of the living for generations, was lit by a single, pulsing gaslight that cast long, trembling shadows across the mahogany table, where the remnants of a celebration that had never truly begun lay cooling in shallow bowls of porcelain. It was here, amidst the heavy...
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