The Faded Quadrant
The dream had no sky, only a suffocating tapestry of wet wool and the relentless, grinding hum of the loom, and within that grey, breathing dark, the boy found his own left hand detached from his wrist, floating like a pale, severed fruit in a storm, the fingers still twitching with the muscle memory of a thousand small, desperate tasks, yet utterly, terrifyingly free of the body that had...
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