The Golden Farce

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 18:06:54 -

The Golden Farce

The fog does not rise. It presses. It pushes against the glass of the nursery window like a living thing, hungry and cold. You are awake. You have always been awake. The room is small. The walls are white. The air is thick. It tastes of salt and iron. You press your hand to the pane. The glass is warm. It should be cold. It is always warm. "Who is there?" you whisper. No answer. The fog moves....

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