The Wistful Ashes
The dream began, as it always did, with the smell of damp ash and the distant, rhythmic thrumming of the ventilation shafts that kept the air in the Low Quarter breathable. Elias Vane woke in his narrow cot, the metal frame cold against his spine, the thin blanket tangled around his legs. He was an elder of the Archive, one of the few remaining who remembered the texture of soil, the weight of...
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