The Wistful Ashes
The dream began not with a sound but with a weight, a heavy, wet pressure against the lungs of the air, as if the atmosphere itself had congealed into a thick, gray syrup that refused to part for the passage of breath. Marcus stood in the center of a vast, white void that stretched out in all directions, a horizonless expanse of blinding purity that seemed to hum with a low, subsonic frequency,...
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