The Wistful Letter
The air in the Vault tasted of ozone and rust. It was a metallic tang, thick enough to coat the tongue. I stood alone in the dark. The hum of the generators was a low, constant thrum. It vibrated in my teeth. My name is Silas. I am the Keeper. Or I was. The walls were not stone. They were sheets of glass, layered and fused. They glowed with a faint, sickly green light. The light pulsed. It...
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