The Faded Paradox
The dream began not with light, but with the wet, slapping sound of bare feet against cold, flagstone, a rhythm that throbbed in the center of William Ashworth’s skull like a second, arrhythmic heart, driving him into a waking state that felt less like life and more like a feverish hallucination where the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and stale woodsmoke, the kind of air that had...
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