The Wistful Ashes
The light in the Archive was the color of old tea, a murky, sediment-laden amber that clung to the dust motes suspended in the still air. I was not speaking to you, but to the reflection that stood behind my chair, a figure composed of the same charcoal-grey dust that coated the shelves, whose mouth moved in sync with my own but whose eyes held the cold, detached assessment of an auditor. Elias...
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