The Distant Promise
12th November, 1898. I have counted the pheasants. There are four on the silver platter, their skins glazed to a mahogany shine that reflects the chandelier light in fractured, sharp shards, and I have weighed the silence in the room against the weight of the silver service, finding the former to be significantly heavier, denser, and more oppressive than the metal. The air here in the grand...
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