The Distant Nightmare
The iron gates of the old textile mill, which you have guarded for thirty years, stand open for the first time in your life, and the rusted hinges scream a long, metallic shriek that sounds suspiciously like the sound your own knees make when you try to stand up in the morning, a sound that has become the background music of your existence, a rhythmic creaking that serves as a countdown to a...
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