The Wistful Witness
The great hall of the Whitmore estate was a cathedral of glass and steel, suspended in the twilight of an age that had not yet learned to mourn its own obsolescence. You stood at the center of the ballroom, the air thick with the scent of tuberose and the metallic tang of ozone, while the orchestra played a waltz that seemed to spiral inward, tightening around your ankles like a noose of sound....
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