A whole civilization spun from porcelain and stained glass: towers you could chip with a fingernail, citizens you can half-see through, their moods passing across them like light through a cathedral window. The locomotive that carries you in is glass too, steaming softly along gold rails, and it goes slowly, because nothing here moves faster than it can afford to break.

You’ll notice you’ve started holding your own breath — not from fear, but from courtesy. You came because somewhere along the way you’d been handled roughly, and you wanted, just once, to be somewhere that understood delicacy isn’t weakness. It’s the thing most worth protecting.