The Wistful Voyage

bir ses eklendi Literature

2026-08-19 10:14:34 -

The dream always began with the sound of the radiator ticking. It was a dry, rhythmic click, like the knuckles of an old man cracking open, echoing through the sterile white tile of the infirmary. I was standing in the center of the room, my hands bound at the wrists with soft, gray cuffs. The cuffs were not made of metal. They were made of fog. They were cold and damp, and they tightened as I...

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