The Wistful Grid
The glass of the Aetherium is weeping. It is a slow, crystalline tear, a fracture that began at the apex of the dome and has since spiderwebbed down toward the east wing, catching the gray March light in a way that feels less like refraction and more like a warning. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last two decades listening to the hum of this building, a...
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