The Pale Bridge
The dream was not a dream but a smear of grey static, a television left on in a room no one lived in. In it, the bridge was pale, not the white of bone or the white of snow, but the translucent, sickly white of old paper held up to a dying sun. It stretched across a chasm that hummed with a low, mechanical thrum, the sound of a city digesting its own noise. Elias stood on the far bank, his...
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