The Distant Nightmare
The silk is white, or perhaps it has been white for so long that it has forgotten the difference between purity and decay. It hangs from the iron bar in your closet, a ghost limb that refuses to detach from the frame of your life. You are Margaret, and you are the Keeper of the Archive, a title that sounds like a burden of gold but feels, in the marrow, like the weight of wet stone. The air in...
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