The Wistful Atlas
You wake with the taste of copper on your tongue, a metallic tang that seems to have settled deep in the marrow of your jaw. The dream has faded, as dreams do, leaving only a residue of dread and a specific, aching pressure in the small of your back. You are in the library, the old stone building that smells of dust and decaying paper, but the silence here is not the quiet of study. It is the...
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