Nocturne carved in glass and gold. Elegance under witness; mischief under oath. Music for rooms that argue with the soul.
A room that is neither fully in the world nor outside of it. There’s always dust in the corners. The furniture is mismatched: a velvet armchair here, a cracked writing desk there, a coatrack that has held a gun, a veil, and a crown. This is a bureau of gods, a stage for neurosis, a war room for souls.
The light flickers inconsistently, not because of faulty wiring (there is no wiring), but because the room adjusts itself to the emotional voltage of its inhabitants. The more charged the argument, the more flickering, more heat, more shadow. One could swear the walls bend inward when someone feels shame. Or pride.
At the center is a long, battered table. Its legs have been repaired three times by Logos, who muttered about “structural coherence” while hammering. He did it without complaint, but the sweat on his shirt revealed it wasn’t just for the wood.