The Wistful Silence
The heavy oak door groans as you push it open, the sound a low, wooden sigh that seems to swallow the light from the corridor. You step into the library, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and decay, a perfume that has marinated into the very fibers of the tapestries. It is night, or perhaps it is only a very deep twilight, for the windows are high and barred, admitting only a sliver of...
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