The Wistful Witness
You wake in the violet haze of a dream that refuses to dissolve, the air in the grand, echoing hall thick with the scent of old paper and ozone, as if the very atmosphere has been charged by the proximity of something vast and incomprehensible. The chandeliers above you, those intricate webs of crystal and brass that usually catch the light with a polite, domestic shimmer, now hang suspended in...
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