The Distant Joke
The dust in the Great Hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for Advanced Metaphysics did not merely settle; it suspended itself in a perpetual, shimmering haze that seemed to breathe with the slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction of the building’s ancient, iron-boned lungs, a tangible atmosphere of suspended judgment that wrapped around Professor Arthur Penhaligon’s shoulders like a heavy, wet...
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