The Faded Root
The rain fell on the iron lattice of the Conservatory like a steady, rhythmic tapping of fingers on a table, a sound that had long since ceased to be noise and had become the very texture of the air, a dense, wet fog that permeated the pores of my skin and settled in the marrow of my bones, a constant, unyielding presence that served as the only clock I had left to measure the decay of my own...
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