The Pale Shadows
The champagne flutes in your hand clink with a sound that feels too loud, too sharp, against the low murmur of the banquet hall, and you stand by the buffet table, watching the ice melt in the crystal glasses while the tremor in your left hand begins its familiar, insidious dance. You are forty-two years old, an archivist of mid-level competence, and you are here for Clara, though Clara has...
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