The Golden Quest
The dream began not with a sound, but with the sensation of wet wool clinging to the skin, a heavy, suffocating dampness that seeped into the marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones as he lay rigid in the narrow bunk of the watchtower, the air thick with the smell of mildew and the distant, metallic tang of the river below. He was not in the tower, or so it seemed to the fractured geography of his...
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