The Golden Greenhouse
The dust in the library does not settle; it hangs in the air like a suspended judgment, a golden haze that coats the back of your throat and makes every breath feel like swallowing a mouthful of warm, dry ash. You are kneeling on the flagstones, your knees aching with a dull, rhythmic throb that matches the beating of your heart, which is no longer your own but the collective, humming pulse of...
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