The Pale Garden
In the dream, the glass does not shatter; it exhales. You are standing in the atrium of the Sanatorium for the Study of Acute Trauma, a vast, sterile cathedral of white marble and reinforced steel that rises like a monolith against the gray, rain-slicked sky of a city you cannot name but feel in your bones. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and old lavender, a cloying sweetness that...
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