The Distant Journey

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 23:45:53 -

The dream was always the same: a field of poppies, red as spilled blood, swaying in a wind that had no sound. In the dream, Margaret stood at the edge of the field, watching the flowers bow toward her, not in greeting, but in surrender. She woke with the taste of iron on her tongue and the silence of the penthouse apartment pressing against her eardrums. It was 4:00 AM in Chicago. The city...

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