The Pale Circus
The first thing you notice is the silence, which is not the absence of sound but a heavy, wet thing that presses against your eardrums, tasting of iron and old rain. You are standing in the center of a hall that should not exist, a place where the architecture of the world has been folded and unfolded until it resembles the inside of a ribcage. The light here is the color of bruised plums,...
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