"Look closely, Lydia," I prodded softly. "Which piece doesn't fit? What here is different from everything else?"
Her gaze swept over the table again—over the rotting meats, the moldy bread, the sour wine, and the basket of decayed fruits. Her eyes lingered on the translucent diners, their ghostly hands lifting decayed, pulsating organs to their mouths in a grotesque mockery of life. And then, her eyes fell on it.
A single, grape-like fruit nestled among the decay. Unlike the rest of the banquet, it was untouched by rot, glistening with an unnatural sheen. It was small, almost easy to overlook amidst the horror of the feast, but it was whole. Where everything else had succumbed to the passage of time and the corruption of the Pale Feast, this fruit remained pristine, out of place yet undeniably integral to the ritual's structure.
