The Wistful Atlas
You wake in a house that is not your own, though the weight of the silence presses against your eardrums with a familiarity that feels like the inside of a helmet, heavy and metallic and suffocating, and the air tastes of old stone and damp wool and the faint, sweet decay of flowers that have long since ceased to bloom, and you are standing in a hallway that stretches out before you like a...
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