The Distant Joke
The dream began not with sight, but with the weight of the silk scarf, a heavy, indigo band of fabric that felt less like an accessory and more like a living vine strangling the throat of the world. It was a cold, gray morning, the kind that settles into the bones of the body before the sun has the audacity to rise, and Silas Vane stood on the edge of the cliff, the wind tearing at the hem of...
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