The Pale Tale
You wake with the taste of rust on your tongue, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to be swallowed, as if the air itself has been chewed by something old and indifferent. It is a dream that does not feel like a dream but rather a waking that has been deferred, a suspension in the grey limbo between the last flicker of sleep and the first cold shock of reality, where...
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