The Distant Summer
The clock in the foyer does not tick. It breathes, a slow, mechanical respiration that fills the hallway with a silence heavier than the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. You stand at the threshold of the Grand Conservatory, a glass cathedral built in the height of the Industrial Age, its iron ribs blackened by time and soot. You are not a visitor. You are the custodian of this place,...
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