The Wistful Petal
The banquet hall of the Institute for the Preservation of Historical Accuracy was a cavern of chandeliers and dust, where the air hung thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of ambition that clung to the skin like a second, invisible epidermis. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your knuckles white with a tension that...
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