Once, in a gallery the size of a cathedral, a lake spread flat as glass. The surface pulled the lantern-light into a single, deep point. We moved along its edge, and in the reflection there was a sky that we did not have: slow-moving clouds patterned in colors we had no names for, and stars that ran in ladders. A fish, blind and silver, rose from nowhere and tasted the air; it seemed offended by our presence and returned to its private dark with a ripple that scattered our reflections into a hundred small moons.
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Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth was a testament to 19th-century optimism—a belief that if we looked deep enough into the past and the planet, we would find giants, crystals, and suns burning within the dark. It was a journey of discovery. Once, in a gallery the size of a