The Faded River
The chafing dishes clatter as servants lift the lids, releasing a steam that smells of rosemary and old blood. You stand at the head of the long oak table, your spine rigid, your left arm resting on the polished surface where the blue line of the Vein pulses beneath your skin. It is a steady, rhythmic beat, a map of your life force that has never once faltered in forty-two years. The estate is...
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