The Pale Altar
The dream had a texture like wet wool, heavy and clinging to the skin of the mind, a suffocating embrace that Withering thought he might be drowning in the very air of the place, though he was standing dry on the mossy stones of the Green Court, that ancient, impossible patch of earth that had no business existing beneath the grey soot of the city nor in the flat, lifeless expanse of the real...
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