An empty room. The golden hour, and the scent of stillness, mixed with the breath of the flowers in the garden, seeping in through the cracks in the ancient doors.
No one there, yet one can almost feel the presence of someone, or something, in the room. Voices and memories from the past cling tenaciously to the old walls and curtains. It's just another afternoon in the Centennial, that peculiar, silent majesty.
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