The Distant Ghost
The dream was not a dream but a memory of the body, a phantom limb twitching in the dark of a wagon bed. Thomas Whitmore woke with the taste of iron and ash in his mouth, the air in the carriage so thick it felt like swallowing wet wool. Outside, the fog clung to the Scottish highlands, a gray shroud that erased the horizon and turned the ancient pines into silent, skeletal sentinels. He was a...
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