The Wistful Grid
The dream is always the same. You are standing in the center of the courtyard. The stones are cold. They press against the soles of your boots with a weight that feels like memory. You are wearing the uniform of the old order. The wool is heavy. The insignia on your chest is tarnished silver. It looks like a wound that refuses to heal. You look down at your hands. They are covered in dirt. Or...
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