The Wistful Saga
The dream was not of flight, but of sinking. It was a slow, viscous descent through layers of gray water, the pressure building against Elias Thorne’s eardrums until the world dissolved into a hum of low-frequency grief. He saw his own hands, pale and translucent, reaching for something just out of grasp, but they only stirred the silt. When he woke in the narrow bunk of the sleeper train, the...
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