The Faded Paradox
The hall is bright. Too bright. You stand in the center. The chandeliers burn with cold fire. They do not flicker. They do not dim. They are fixed stars in a vaulted sky of plaster and gold leaf. You hold it. The hand. It is your hand. You do not remember when you took it. You do not remember when you stopped using it. But it is there. In your other hand. Wrapped in silk. The silk is white. It...
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