The Pale Echo
The chandelier hung in the center of the Ministry’s grand hall like a frozen storm, a constellation of pale, fractured light that caught the gas lamps and threw them back in jagged, trembling shards. I stood before it, my hands still stained with the white dust of silica and the sweat of forty-two years of labor, watching the way the glass seemed to breathe in the heat of the room, a testament...
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