The Faded River
The dream begins with the water. It is not a river of flowing current but a stagnant pool of ink, dark and viscous, filling the grand atrium of the University of St. Jude. You stand at the edge of this black expanse, your feet bare against the cold marble. The air smells of old paper and wet stone. You are not afraid. You are only curious. In the dream, you know that the water is not water. It...
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