The Distant Ghost
The dream began, as it always did in the grey hours before the sun could claim the horizon, with the smell of ozone and old parchment, a scent that seemed to seep through the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots and settle deep in the marrow of his bones, a physical weight that anchored him to a city that no longer existed on any modern map yet persisted with terrifying clarity in the architecture of...
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