The Wistful Saga
The first thing you notice is the dust. It hangs in the shafts of light that pierce the boarded-up windows of the old textile mill, a suspended galaxy of gray particulate that coats your tongue with the taste of iron and dry rot. You stand in the center of the floor, your boots sinking slightly into the debris, and you wait. You are waiting for the crack to spread. You are waiting for the...
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