The Distant Clue
The dream is a house that does not exist, built of stone so old it has forgotten how to be hard, and you stand in its center hall where the light comes from nowhere and everywhere, a pale, suspended mist that turns the dust motes into slow, drifting galaxies. You are not a child here, though your hands feel small and uncertain, as if the skin has not yet learned the calluses of labor or the...
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