The Wistful Grid
The glass had been perfect for forty years, a sprawling, crystalline web that spanned the entire ceiling of the main hall, catching the winter sun until it fractured the light into a thousand sharp, dancing shards that fell upon the floor like frozen rain. Elias stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, the leather of his gloves creaking in the silence of the house. He was a man built...
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