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Vacant."

It's the first word that has registered in your consciousness in what feels like an eternity. Maybe forever? No, that can't be possible.

The word is scrawled across a weathered green chalkboard, its edges fraying with time. It sits there, almost palpable in its longing, yearning for eyes to acknowledge its existence, to make it real.

You are standing enveloped in a vast expanse of white — a void so profoundly empty that the word "nothing" seems inadequate. It engulfs you, a nebulous haze of blankness, devoid of any discernible features or boundaries.

Yet, amidst this boundless nothing, there is *something*: a solitary building stands, incongruously placed, defiant against the encompassing abyss.

And you are standing at its entrance.

The premises, a quaint structure of timeworn brick, is adorned with creeping vines and patches of vibrant moss, giving it a sense of having grown organically from the void itself. The windows, grimy from years of neglect, still manage to emit a warm, inviting glow. Wildflowers grow in haphazard clusters around the base of the building, their colors stark against the pub's weathered facade.

As you approach the solid wooden door, it creaks open slightly, as if the building itself senses your presence and beckons you to enter. A faint aroma of aged wood and distant echoes of laughter drift out, tantalizing your senses and inviting you into its embrace.