The Wistful Show
I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth, a metallic tang that coated the tongue and lingered in the throat like a bad penny. The dream had been simple, a recurring nightmare of my hands, the knuckles swollen and purple, the fingernails black with dried blood and the residue of old leather. In the dream, I was not in my bed in the cold stone guesthouse, but standing in the courtyard of the...
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