The Faded Dust
The dream is not of fire, as you might expect for a man who has spent three decades in the shadow of his own making, but of water. It is a thin, grey sheet of it, stretching out beneath a sky so low it touches the tops of the skyscrapers, and in the water, you see not your reflection, but the face of Arthur. He is young there, before the years have etched the sorrow into the lines of his jaw,...
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