The Golden Circuit
The dream is always the same. It is a room of blue glass, humming with a low, electric thrum that vibrates in the teeth. You are holding a small, brass key. It is warm. It is alive. You are trying to unlock a door that does not exist, and the more you turn it, the more the brass bites into your palm, leaving a red, blooming mark. You wake with the taste of copper on your tongue. You are twelve...
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