The Pale Door
The molten silica in the crucible hums a low, dissonant chord that vibrates through the soles of your boots, a sound like a dying animal trapped in the belly of the furnace, and you watch with a stillness that borders on paralysis as the glass begins to weep, not with heat, but with a dark, viscous tear that slides down the side of the gather, carrying with it a reflection that is not yours....
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