The Pale Tower
The air in the Hall of Whispers is not air at all, but a suspension of golden dust that hangs motionless in the shafts of light falling from windows that do not exist in the architecture of the building below, and you stand there, holding the small, cold weight of the sparrow in your hands, feeling its ribs press against your palms like the bars of a cage that is also a cradle, and the silence...
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