The Faded Root
The banquet hall smelled of wet wool and stale yeast, a heavy, cloying scent that seemed to coat the back of my throat with a thick, viscous film that I could not spit out, no matter how hard I tried to clear my airway of the particulate matter that hung suspended in the amber light of the chandeliers. We were gathered there, the entire district, sitting on folding metal chairs that scraped...
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