Prompt

A single, rotating kaleidoscope of solidified wind and compressed light hangs suspended in the center of a vast, still library built from the hollowedout bones of extinct constellations. The kaleidoscope is not glass, but a fractal lattice of selfrepairing ice that refracts not colors, but emotionseach facet revealing a different tone of sorrow, curiosity, or quiet joy, rendered as shifting auroras of sound that bloom into visible harmonics when touched by a breath. The librarys shelves are not wood, but solidified moments of silence from a thousand unspoken conversations, each one etched with the faint, ghostly script of a name that was never spoken aloud. Between the shelves, the air hums with

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