The Golden Circuit
The dream always began with the sound of rain striking the slate roof of the mill, a rhythmic, percussive tapping that seemed to count down the seconds of a life already spent. Elara woke in the gray light of dawn, the chill of the October air seeping through the thin wool of her nightgown, and reached for the journal that lay open on the nightstand. It was not a journal in the sentimental...
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