The Wistful Cipher
The air in the Hall of Echoes tastes of copper and stale bread, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to wash away, leaving behind a residue that feels less like flavor and more like a wound that will not close. You stand at the edge of the precipice, where the floor dissolves into a mist that smells of burnt sugar and old blood, and you realize that the ground beneath...
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