The Wistful Crossroads

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 09:51:17 -

The dream was a corridor of white stone, stretching into a fog that smelled of ozone and old paper. I stood at its end, holding a lantern that burned with a blue, silent flame. The walls were not walls, but the spines of books, thousands of them, pressing inward. I knew the names of every volume. I knew the weight of every sentence. It was a prison of perfect order. I woke in my room at the...

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