The Golden Mirror
You are standing in the anteroom of the Department of Special Collections, the air thick with the scent of decaying paper and the metallic tang of old brass, your fingers tracing the edge of a leather-bound ledger that smells of rain and something faintly, unsettlingly sweet, like lilies left too long in a vase. It is late, the kind of late that bleeds into the small hours, the building...
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