It’s pitch black, damp and a chilly. You shouldn’t be here. Cricket chirps and crunching leaves echo throughout the chambers. The air is thick and heavy, you can almost feel it weighing you down. No one is supposed to be here. There’s a mild gust of frigid air. It brushes against your face and pools around your feet. Soft rumbles reverberate from the west wing. The pitter of raindrops, the smell of petrichor. The darkness seeps into your eyes and melts into your skin. You feel weightless, and tired. Maybe you should stay a while. No one is allowed here. Have some rest. No one can be here. You lie down. This floor is empty
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