The Wistful Skyline
The pill is not a pill at all but a shard of glass caught in the throat of the night, a jagged fragment of your own reflection that has turned against you, and you wake not to the softness of the duvet but to the brutal, crystalline edge of a sky that is breaking apart above the moor, a sky that tastes of iron and old blood, and you realize that the silence of the house is not empty but heavy...
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