The Pale Tale
The dream always starts with the chandelier, that sprawling, crystal-encrusted spider hanging from the ceiling of the Grand Hall, swinging gently in a wind that has no source, casting a thousand fractured rainbows across the polished marble floor where I am standing, barefoot and shivering, holding a brass key that is too heavy for my hand and too warm, as if it has been sitting in the sun for...
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