The Wistful Dinner
The dream did not arrive with the usual heavy curtain of sleep but rather seeped in like cold water through a cracked foundation, filling the room where Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the smell of ozone and wet brick thick in the air until it was impossible to distinguish the gray walls of his office from the infinite, churning gray of the sky that had replaced the ceiling. He was a man of minor...
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