The Faded Photograph
The dream began not with sound, but with the slow, agonizing fracture of a pane of glass that had been frozen in the window frame for thirty years, the shards falling not to the floor but into the air, suspended in a dust motes of amber light that tasted of iron and old paper, and Dr. Elias Thorne woke with the sensation that his own ribs were made of that same brittle, translucent material,...
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