The Wistful Voyage
The glass shattered. It did not shatter with a sound. It shattered with a silence so profound it felt like a physical blow to the sternum. I stood in the center of the Great Hall. The dust motes hung suspended in the shafts of light. They were like tiny galaxies. They were like the eyes of the dead. I was the Archivist. This was my title. It was a hollow thing. It was a weight. I held the...
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