The Faded Dust
The dream began, as it always did, with the sound of breaking glass. It was not the sharp, sudden shatter of a wine glass dropped on a marble floor, but a slow, grinding fracture, like ice calving off a glacier in the deep winter. I woke in the small hours, my heart hammering against my ribs, the taste of copper and old dust on my tongue. Outside the window of my cell, the moon hung low and...
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