The Wistful Atlas
The silk of your gown had been woven in the looms of a city you had never seen, yet it clung to you with the familiarity of a second skin, a second soul that whispered against the cold stone of the tower. You stood before the mirror, the glass dark and still as a midnight lake, and watched the fabric ripple as you turned. It was a garment of such profound, technical elegance that it seemed less...
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