The Pale Bonsai
You stand in the center of the Great Atrium, a space so vast and architecturally oppressive that the air itself seems to have forgotten how to move, thick with the scent of ozone and the sweet, rotting perfume of overripe peaches that hang from the vaulted ceiling like swollen, bruised eyes staring down at your insignificant, trembling form. The light here is not sunlight, for there are no...
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