The Wistful Show
The boy did not wake from the dream so much as he surfaced from it, his consciousness rising slowly like silt settling in a stagnant pond. He was lying on his back in the tall, pale grass of the valley floor, the air thick with the scent of crushed lavender and old stone. It was not a dream in the way one understands a dream, a fleeting shadow cast by the mind during sleep, but a persistent...
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