The hall seems endless, yet every figure stands too near, their waxen faces caught mid-gesture as though they were once reaching for something that slipped away. A warmth clings to the air, not of life but of candles left burning too long, sagging into formless puddles. Each likeness is perfect, yet wrong—eyes that never blink, mouths that seem to mouth a warning only when you’re not looking directly. The place is a shrine to permissions granted without question, where every indulgence is another wick set alight. One can almost hear the drip, drip, drip of melting forms—bodies kept upright by habit alone—until nothing remains but smoke curling in the dark.