The Wistful Silence
The silence in the library has weight. It presses against your eardrums, a physical force that demands you hold your breath. You sit at the long oak table, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and ink-stained fingers. Your left hand rests on the open volume, a thick tome of architectural history, but you are not reading. You are watching your knuckles. They are swollen, the skin pulled...
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