The Wistful Petal
You are already gone. Or rather, you have never been here. The air in the Hall of Whispers is thick with the scent of ozone and old dust. It tastes of copper. You breathe it in. It fills your lungs. It fills your veins. You are Margaret. You are the daughter of the house. You are the daughter of the silence. The room is vast. The ceiling is lost in shadow. The chandeliers hang like dead stars....
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