The Pale Shadows
The dream begins with the sound of a drill. It is a high-pitched, mechanical whine, steady as a metronome, vibrating through the floorboards of a house that no longer exists. You are standing in a hallway painted a shade of beige that has not been used since the late nineties. The air smells of dust and ozone. You are looking at your own hand. It is not your hand. It is too large, the knuckles...
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