The Distant Threshold
The mirror in the dressing room did not reflect you; it trapped you. You are standing in the center of the hall, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and old perfume, the kind that clings to velvet and refuses to wash out. It is the night of the Midwinter Feast, a celebration that has continued in this estate for three centuries, passed down like a cursed heirloom. The chandeliers burn with...
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