The Wistful Skyline
The dream always began with the hum. It was a low, electric thrum that vibrated in the teeth, in the marrow, a sound so constant it had become the silence against which all other noise was measured. Mara lay in the narrow cot in the staff quarters, her eyes open to the ceiling where a water stain shaped like a jagged island had formed over the last decade. She did not wake. She simply drifted...
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