The Golden Mirror
The dream has a texture, you decide, like wet sand packed tight against a shoe. It is not dark, exactly, but a suffocating beige, a color that swallows the light before it can reach the floorboards. You are standing in the hallway of the house on Elm Street, the one your father bought in 1994 with money he never spoke of. The air is still, heavy with the scent of lemon oil and old paper. In...
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