The Pale Meridian
The air in the Conservatory of Glass and Iron tastes of ozone and old roses, a scent that hangs in the throat like a suspended breath. You are standing before the central atrium, your fingers tracing the cold, jagged edge of a brass railing, feeling the vibration of the machinery that hums beneath the floorboards. It is a low, thrumming bass note, the heartbeat of the structure itself, a place...
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