The Faded Dust
The dust in the library of the Whitmore estate did not settle, nor did it drift, for it was not the mere accumulation of dead skin and textile fiber that one might expect in a house left untended by the hands of its masters, but rather a living, breathing fog that clung to the spines of the books like a lover refusing to part, a thick, golden suspension that turned the air into a viscous medium...
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