The Distant Affair
The feast is not a celebration of life, but a banquet of the dead, and you sit at the center of it, a guest who has forgotten he is already buried. The hall is vast, constructed of bone-white marble that hums with a low, subsonic vibration, a frequency that rattles the teeth in your skull. Candles burn with flames the color of bruised plums, casting long, distorted shadows that do not match the...
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