The Golden Crossing
The dream began, as it always did, with the sound of a joint cracking, a dry, brittle snap that echoed through the sterile, white corridors of the Department of Anomalous Behavioral Analysis. In the dream, I was not the Senior Investigator I was in waking life, but a figure made entirely of glass and wire, my internal mechanisms exposed to the cold, recycled air. I stood before the Mirror Room,...
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