Liora once came upon a city made entirely of windows.
No walls, no doors — only panes, each angled differently, each admitting a different light.
From one window, the city glowed gold.
From another, it looked storm-dark.
From a third, the streets bent gently, as if remembering something they had once been.
The city’s archivists argued endlessly over which window showed the true city.
They climbed towers, built platforms, stacked lenses upon lenses — yet the city only fractured further.
Liora sat on the steps and watched people pass through the light of their own windows.
She realised the city was not hidden by perspective — it was made of it.
When she left, she did not take a map.
She took a shard of glass that caught the light differently depending on where she stood.
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