The Distant Legend
The dream was not a narrative, but a texture. It was the sound of glass grinding against stone, a low, continuous moan that seemed to rise from the bedrock of the city itself. I was standing in the center of the Old Quarter, where the cobblestones were worn smooth by centuries of heavy boots and lighter souls. In my hands, I held a single shard of mirror. It was not a large piece, perhaps the...
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