The Wistful Atlas
The hall smelled of roasted duck, burnt candle wax, and the heavy, cloying perfume of lilies that had been forced open in the vases on every table. It was the annual symposium of the Institute for Linguistic Preservation, a gathering that felt less like an academic conference and more like a funeral for languages that had never quite stopped breathing. You sat at the head of the long mahogany...
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