The Wistful Show
The dream begins not with light, but with the smell of roasted almonds and the heavy, coppery taste of old blood on your tongue. You are standing in a courtyard of white stone, the kind that seems to absorb the heat of the sun rather than reflect it, and the air is thick with the scent of lavender and decay. This is not your time, though it feels like a memory you have lost the key to. You are...
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