The Faded Bouquet
The vase stands in the center of the room. It is tall. It is white. It holds no flowers. You see it. You always see it. It is the only thing that does not change. The walls breathe. The floor shifts like sand. But the vase remains. It is cold. It is smooth. It is yours. You touched it last. You remember the texture. It was hard. It was unyielding. It is the anchor. You are in the Hall. It is a...
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