The Wistful Petal
You are standing in the center of the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Mirbeau, a place that exists only in the fold between a Tuesday night in Chicago and the eternal, humming now of a dream you cannot wake from, and the air around you is so thick with the scent of ozone and crushed rose petals that it feels less like atmosphere and more like a liquid you are slowly drowning in while pretending to...
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