The Faded Dust
You are the stone in the mortar of the city, and you do not move. The dream is not a dream but a waking that has forgotten how to blink. You stand in the center of the square, where the cobblestones are black with the grime of centuries, and the air tastes of wet wool and old iron. You are wearing the coat of the Watch, the heavy wool that chafes against your neck, the brass buttons cold...
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