The Distant Journey
The silence in the Grand Conservatory of the Blackwood Estate was not an absence of sound, but a presence, heavy and thick as the damp air that clung to the glass panes. You stand before the central pedestal, where the *Amorphophallus* blooms, a singular, grotesque marvel of violet and yellow that pulses with a rhythm you can feel in the marrow of your bones rather than hear with your ears. It...
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