The Wistful Petal
You are standing in the vestibule of a library that has no exterior, a vast, circular hall where the walls are not stone but shelves, and the shelves are not wood but frozen light, stretching up into a ceiling that is merely a void of deep, bruised purple, and you know, with a certainty that feels like a physical bruise on your soul, that you have been here before, and you will be here again,...
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