The Faded Paradox
The dream did not wake with the sun, but rather with the settling of dust in the high, vaulted ceiling of the library. Thomas Ashworth stood in the center of the circular reading room, the air thick with the scent of ozone and decaying paper. He was seven years old, or perhaps he was not a boy at all, but a collection of memories given the shape of a child. The building was not a library in any...
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