The Wistful Atlas
You stand in the dark. The stone is cold. It bites into your knees. You are in the undercroft. The vaults curve overhead. They are black with age. Dust hangs in the air. It is thick. It is alive. You wait. Your breath is shallow. It fogs the air. It vanishes. You count your heartbeats. One. Two. Three. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. It is a physical weight. You are here...
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