The Distant Summer
The dream has no ceiling. It is a void of pale stone, endless and cold. You stand in the center of it. The floor is not stone but water, shallow and freezing, lapping at the hem of your robe. You are a scholar. You know this because you remember the weight of the ink in your fingers, the smell of vellum, the ache in your back from hours bent over manuscripts. But here, in the dream, you are...
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