The Faded Root
You are standing in the center of the room, the air thick with the scent of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of old blood that seems to seep up from the floorboards, a smell that has settled into the very grain of the wood, into the plaster of the walls, and finally, inescapably, into the lining of your own lungs, so that every breath you take is a small act of ingestion, a slow poisoning...
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