The Wistful Skyline
The dream always begins with the sound of a loom, not the clatter of gears, but the slow, rhythmic thud of a wooden shuttle passing back and forth, a heartbeat made of oak and tension, and you are lying on your back in a room you do not recognize, the ceiling above you painted with a faded fresco of angels whose wings are slowly turning to ash, and you know with a certainty that settles in your...
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