The Pale Dance
The banquet hall of the Sanatorium for the Nervous was a cavern of white marble and brass, echoing with the hollow clatter of silverware on porcelain. It was the annual Gala of Restoration, a spectacle of industrial optimism where the air smelled of boiled meat, lavender water, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that seeped from the new electro-therapy machines in the corner. Elias Thorne...
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