The Faded Photograph
The ballroom in the estate of Julian Vane was not a room, but a suspended engine of light and brass, humming with the low, thrumming vibration of a thousand electric filaments. Margaret stood at the center of the dance floor, her feet planted firmly on the polished oak, though her body felt untethered, floating in a vacuum of gold and glass. The air smelled of ozone, burnt sugar, and the...
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