The Wistful Ashes
The air in the Hall of Records was not merely cool; it was a specific, curated absence of warmth, a vacuum into which the dust of centuries had settled like snow in a field no one would ever walk across. I stood before the long, oak table, my hands resting on its surface, feeling the grain of the wood beneath my fingers, a texture that seemed to pulse with a slow, vegetative life. It was the...
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