The Pale Tower
You are standing in the kitchen, and the light is coming in from the window at an angle that makes the dust motes look like suspended gold leaf, a slow, silent explosion of debris hanging in the air. It is 1908, or perhaps 1912, the dates blur in your mind like ink dropped in water, but the smell is distinct, sharp, and medicinal. You are holding a bowl. It is not a bowl of soup, nor a bowl of...
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