The Faded Photograph
The banquet hall smells of roasted pheasant and stale lavender, a cloying scent that clings to the back of your throat like a bad taste. You stand in the corner, adjusting the knot of your tie, feeling the stiff starch of the shirt collar against your neck. It is a minor discomfort, a physical anchor in a room that feels increasingly like it is dissolving around you. Around you, the officers of...
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