The Faded Apartment
The mist did not rise from the valley; it breathed out of the stone itself, a cold, wet exhalation that clung to our ankles like the hands of the dead. I stood at the edge of the precipice, where the world ended and the gray void began, holding the shard of black glass in my palm. It was warm. It had always been warm, a feverish heat that seeped into the meat of my hand, promising a fire that...
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