The Pale Dance
In the dream that persisted long after the industrial dawn, Margaret Holloway did not sleep so much as she hovered, suspended in the amber haze of a memory that had not yet been written into the ledger of her waking life, where the air tasted of copper filings and stale coal smoke that clung to the back of her throat like a second skin, and she stood in the center of the town square, not...
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