The Wistful Incense
The banquet hall of the Holloway estate did not smell of food, but of dust and old paper, a scent that settled into the lungs like a fine, grey silt. It was a room designed for ghosts, with its high, vaulted ceilings and windows that had not seen the sun in decades, yet it was filled to the brim with guests who moved with the rigid, performative grace of those who have forgotten how to breathe...
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