The air in the Hall of Whispers did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect in a place that existed only in the peripheral vision of the mind, but rather of ozone and old rain, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent lie. It was a banquet, though there was no food on the long, polished table, only the faint, shimmering outline of plates that had been cleared away...
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