Echoes in the Gilded Cage
By Jamie F. Bell
The air hung thick with the ghosts of commerce, a fine, silver dust motes dancing in the weak light filtering through the grime-streaked skylights of what was once the Obsidian Gallery, a temple to forgotten desires. Cracked marble tiles stretched into the gloom, reflecting the skeletal remains of mannequins draped in tattered finery, their vacant stares fixed on phantom shoppers. Overhead, a single, rusted chandelier, half-fallen, cast long, distorted shadows that writhed with every breath of the chill, stagnant air. The only sound was the scuff of their boots, a tiny disruption in the grand, echoing silence.
