The Faded Root
The ink is dry. You wake with the smell of iron in your mouth. It is not blood. It is rust. It is the smell of the city waking up. Steam rises from the grates. It curls like a ghost. You are in the room. The walls are peeling. The wallpaper is brown. It looks like dried leaves. It looks like skin. You look at your hands. The fingers are black. Not dirt. Ink. The letters are on your palms. Old...
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