The Pale Path
The crystal flute shatters against the mahogany leg of the table, a sharp, brittle scream that cuts through the low hum of the orchestra. You watch the shards scatter across the white linen, a constellation of glass, while the string section plays on, indifferent to the violence of the sound. You are thirty years old, and your hands are steady, but your stomach is a knot of cold iron. The chair...
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