The Distant Whispers
The dream is not a dream, you tell yourself, though the air tastes of copper and old rain. You are standing in the center of the interrogation room, but it is not the concrete box you know from duty. It is a vast, empty cathedral of grey light, the walls breathing slowly, expanding and contracting like the lungs of a sleeping god. In your hand, you hold the badge. It is heavy, colder than...
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