The Distant Joke
The roof came off the world at four o’clock in the afternoon, not with a crash but with a sigh, a long, shuddering exhale of rusted iron and splintered oak that tore the sky open to reveal not the sun we knew, but a vast, churning expanse of violet nebulae that hung low enough to touch the chimneys of the mill town. I stood in the center of the main floor of the old textile factory, my boots...
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