The Quantum Rose of Whitby

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2026-06-20 02:24:30 -

I. The night my parents died, the moor burned with red fire. I was nine years old, standing in the doorway of our Yorkshire cottage, watching a sphere of light no larger than a basketball hover above my father's head. It glowed with a dull crimson luminescence, humming with a sound like a Chinese flute--though I did not know then what a flute was, or China, or anything beyond the moors and the...

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