At the end of the corridor was a single empty pedestal. And on it, a note:
It was a whole life. A whole love story. A beautiful, fabricated hell. jewel house of lust
The door opened. Inside, the air smelled of honey and rust. The Jewel House was a single long corridor lined with alcoves, each containing a gem the size of a fist. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds—but wrong. They pulsed. They breathed. When Lira stepped close to the first one, a deep violet amethyst, she saw herself inside it. At the end of the corridor was a single empty pedestal
The House sat at the city’s crooked heart, behind a door of tarnished brass that had no handle. To enter, you had to place your palm on the cold metal and speak the name of the person you desired most—someone you had never touched. A beautiful, fabricated hell
Lira had spent three years diving deeper than anyone, selling shards to afford a single ticket to the upper city. Not to find him. Just to stand where he had stood. Pathetic. Pure. And utterly hungry.