The Distant Temple
The ash fell like snow. It was grey and fine, settling on my shoulders, my hair, the hem of my dress. I did not brush it away. It felt like a benediction. Or perhaps a verdict. My name is Clara. I live in a house that is not quite a house. It is made of stone that breathes. The walls are warm to the touch, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic heat. This is the Temple. Or what remains of it. My...
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