The Distant Promise
The ink is still wet on the page when the dream begins, a dark, viscous pool that refuses to dry, seeping into the fibers of the parchment with a hunger that feels less like absorption and more like predation. You are standing in the library, that vast, cavernous throat of the house, where the air hangs heavy with the scent of old paper, dust, and the faint, metallic tang of your own sweating...
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