The Wistful Petal
The banquet hall is a cavern of gold leaf and rot, a place where the air hangs heavy with the scent of spilled wine and the dust of centuries, and you stand there, holding your breath as if your lungs were the only thing keeping the ceiling from collapsing onto your shoulders. You are wearing a dress that feels like it was stitched from the skin of a dead season, stiff and unyielding, and...
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