A palace was famed for its endless staircase.
From any step, the next was perfectly placed.
The rise was comfortable.
The angle precise.
Yet no one who climbed it could ever say where it led.
Architects argued over its design.
Some insisted it must reach the heavens.
Others claimed it descended invisibly.
Liora climbed only three steps, then sat.
From there, she could see servants resting on landings, children racing upward, elders descending with care.
The staircase was not going anywhere.
It was hosting motion.
When the palace fell, the staircase remained — not as a ruin, but as a place where people paused without needing arrival.
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