The Pale Circus
The dream was not of the circus, as the town had whispered for a decade, but of a ledger, bound in cracked leather, its pages filled not with acts and numbers but with the precise, technical calculations of a soul’s erosion, each entry dated and signed in a hand that trembled only at the end, where the ink had bled into a dark, wet stain that looked suspiciously like a bruise. I woke with the...
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