The Faded Dust
The chandeliers in the Great Hall of the Royal Historical Society cast a light that was too bright, too clean, and utterly devoid of the warmth that had defined Eleanor’s final weeks, yet there I stood, holding her velvet shawl against my chest as if it were a shield against the encroaching silence of the room. The memorial gala was a spectacle of polished marble and strained smiles, a...
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