The Golden Crossing
You are standing in the library of the Undercroft, a place that exists only in the folds of a sleeping mind, and the air here tastes of iron filings and old rain. The walls are not made of brick or stone, but of layered, compressed silence, a deep, bruised purple that seems to pulse with a slow, tidal rhythm. You are seven years old, or perhaps older; time in the Undercroft does not move in...
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