The Wistful Ashes
The building burned. Not with the dramatic roar of Hollywood fire, but with a silent, sickening exhale of grey smoke that swallowed the morning light. I stood in the lobby of the Institute for Linguistic Preservation, my hand still resting on the brass handle of the door. The heat was a physical weight, pressing against my chest, a warm hand clamping my heart. I watched the flames lick the...
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