The Pale Letter
The glass shatters. Not all at once. A single pane gives way. Then another. The cold rushes in. It is not wind. It is air that has forgotten how to be warm. You stand in the center of the room. The room is the world. The world is a box. You remember the dream. In the dream, the sky was made of paper. Thin, white, trembling. You reached up to touch it. Your finger poked through. The sky bled...
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