The Wistful Saga
The dream begins not with light, but with the hum of a high-voltage transformer, a low, electric thrum that vibrates in the marrow of your bones before your eyes even open. You are lying on a bed of coarse, industrial felt, the air thick with the scent of ozone and wet rust, and you know with a certainty that predates thought that you are not alone. There is a presence in the room, a weight of...
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