The Wistful Dinner
The glass of the observatory dome had shattered three days before I arrived, a web of crystalline fractures that caught the dying light of the industrial city and threw it back in jagged, bleeding shards. I stood in the doorway, my coat heavy with the soot of the textile mills I had just fled, looking up at the broken eye of the institution. I was not here to repair it. I was here to be...
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