The Faded Root
The ink is still wet on the final page of your thesis, a black smear that looks less like text and more like a bruise, when the floorboards beneath your heavy oak desk begin to hum, a low, tectonic groan that vibrates up through the soles of your leather boots and into the marrow of your shins. You are not supposed to be here, not yet, not while the rain hammers against the leaded panes of the...
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