The Pale Door
The dream was not a dream of flight, but of water. It was a thick, viscous dark that rose from the soles of Marcus Thorne’s boots, soaking into the wool of his trousers, cold and indifferent to the heat of his body. He stood in a corridor that stretched into an infinite void, the walls lined with files that hummed with a low, electric frequency, a sound like a swarm of insects trapped in glass....
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