The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-20 22:49:25 -

The dream was of glass. Not the clear, cold kind that held the sea, but the thick, amber varnish of a bottle that had once held something holy. It sat on a table of black oak, trembling under the weight of its own silence. Margaret held it. Her fingers were white, knuckles popping against the curvature. In the dream, the bottle was a throne. She sat upon it, or perhaps it sat within her, a...

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