The Wistful Throne
The dress is small, made of silk so thin it looks like a second skin, stained with the brown grit of wet earth. You hold it in your hands, the fabric cold and damp against your palms, while the hum of the archive’s ventilation system drones a low, constant note in the background. It is a child’s garment, nothing more, yet the static in the air around it has spiked until your teeth ache and the...
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