The Pale Door
You are standing in the center of the atrium of the Royal Institute for Botanical Classification, and the air tastes of copper and stale tea, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to be swallowed. Around you, the mahogany desks are empty, the chairs pushed back with a jagged violence that suggests a hasty evacuation rather than a polite departure, and the silence is so...
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