The Wistful Saga
The air in the Grand Hall of the Whitmore Estate tasted of copper and stale lavender. It was a thick, suffocating scent, the kind that clings to the skin long after the source has vanished. The industrial age had not yet fully stripped the bones of the aristocracy, but it had certainly rusted the hinges. The chandeliers, dripping with crystal that had long lost its clarity, swayed with a faint,...
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