The Wistful Silence
The morning light in the atrium of the Ashworth Institute for Advanced Studies did not merely illuminate the marble floors; it invaded them, a thick, golden syrup that pooled in the crevices of the ancient stone and clung to the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air with a persistence that felt less like physics and more like a slow, deliberate haunting. Julian, who was twelve years old and...
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