The Golden Maze
The air in the workshop smells of ozone and dried sage. You stand at the center of the room, your hands stained with the iridescent dust of the moth wings you have been cataloging. It is a quiet trade, yours. You collect the dead. You preserve the fragile. The walls are lined with glass cases, each containing a single specimen, pinned in perfect silence. Outside, the city roars with a noise...
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