The Wistful Mountain
The dream is a room with no doors, only windows that look out onto a gray, churning sea. You are standing in the center of the floor, which is made of polished stone so cold it burns through the soles of your feet. You are wearing a gown of deep blue velvet, heavy and damp, as if you have just walked out of the water. The fabric clings to your skin, a second skin that pulses with your own...
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