The Wistful Petal
The cathedral does not decay. It waits. You have learned this in the silence of the nave, where the air is so still it feels less like atmosphere and more like a solid medium, a gelatinous suspension of dust and incense that holds the shape of your breath long after it has left your lips. You are not a visitor. You are not a pilgrim. You are the mortar. This is the first thing you must...
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