The Faded Road
The dream began not with a scene, but with a taste, a cloying, metallic sweetness that coated the back of Arthur Penhaligon’s throat like varnish, a flavor that belonged to no fruit he had ever cultivated in the damp, clay-heavy soil of his childhood orchard in Kent, but rather to something synthesized, something that had been pressed through the industrial sieve of the twenty-first century’s...
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