The Faded Ruin
The dream began not with a sound but with a texture, the rough, abrasive grain of sandpaper sliding against the inside of a ribcage, a sensation so visceral that Eleanor wrenched herself awake before the morning light had even begun to bruise the grey curtains of her bedroom in the white-washed house on the hill. She lay still for a long time, her heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm...
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