The Faded Sutra
The stone breathes. That is the only truth I have ever known, a rhythm as steady and indifferent as a heartbeat in a chest that has long since stopped beating. I am the mortar, the binding agent, the silent witness to the slow disintegration of the Hall of Whispers, a structure so ancient that its very existence defies the linear march of history we are taught to revere. We do not build here;...
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