The Wistful Skyline

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2026-08-21 10:57:39 -

The dream had the texture of wet wool, heavy and smelling of iron, a scent that clung to the back of my throat long after I woke in the gray, pre-dawn dark of my cottage in Oakhaven. In the dream, I was holding a sword that was not made of steel but of solidified silence, its edge so sharp it cut the air into ribbons of mist. I was standing on the cliff’s edge, facing a fog that breathed, a fog...

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