The Faded Quadrant
The dream began, as it always did, with the sound of the chrysalis splitting, a sharp, wet crack that echoed through the sterile white corridor of the municipal archives, a sound so intimate and violent that it felt less like an external noise and more like the breaking of a bone within the narrator’s own skull. Margaret Holloway woke not with a gasp but with a slow, heavy sinking in her chest,...
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