The Wistful Witness
The dream began with the smell of coal dust. It was thick. Wet. It coated the back of Elian’s throat. He tried to breathe. The air refused. He was standing in a room that was not a room. It was a throat. The walls were black iron. They groaned. Steam hissed from the pipes. The pipes were veins. They pulsed. Elian looked down. He wore a coat. It was blue. It was heavy. It was his. Or it was his...
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