From the closed gate behind him to the entrance of the hall, it is about a hundred steps. As the beggar moves forward, the sound of the crowd fades, leaving only the echo of his own footsteps. The surroundings are pale and lifeless—no trees, no plants. The flower beds in the garden sit unattended, filled with nothing but dry soil.

  The marble steps, seemingly pristine from a distance, reveal their true state up close. The edges are chipped, worn down by countless feet. Stains and grime cling to the surface, black dots scattered everywhere, some sticky, layered over time.

  The white doors shimmer with gold-lined rims, majestic from afar, yet up close, cracks and minor chips betray their age. The once-immaculate walls, celestial in their whiteness, now host patches of mould creeping into even the most visible corners, signs of neglect spreading subtly.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Outside the hall, the notice board overflows with layered papers, barely held together by weak binding spells. Many are sun-bleached, their edges torn, some barely legible.

  One nearly faded poster catches his eye—"Wanted from Halgricstead"—the ink so eroded that it must have been posted decades ago. He glances at it briefly before shifting his attention to another notice, a record of a charitable event held in the hall. The date is two years old, the writing full of flowery embellishments:

  "With the joint effort and a well-gathered lunch among our esteemed magistrates, we secured a generous sum of one silver and three copper coins to facilitate the proper removal of excess refuse from the municipal receptacle." We extend our gratitude to all who partook in this grand endeavour."

  Seeing no one around, he moves past quickly. Now standing before the hall, his heart remains steady, but a wave of nausea rolls over him—the side effect of Pavlov’s potion.