The Distant Nightmare
The kitchen smelled of burnt sugar and ozone, a scent that clung to the back of Elara’s throat like a physical weight, sharp and metallic. She stood before the cast-iron stove, her hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, vibrating intensity of the air around her. It was late, or perhaps early; time had become a slippery, viscous thing in the house, pooling in the corners and draining...
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