The Wistful Atlas
The dream did not begin with light, as one might expect from a state of unconsciousness, but with the cold, sterile hum of a ventilation system that seemed to breathe against the inside of Thomas Bradshaw’s skull. He was standing in a room that was not a room, but a vast, white expanse that curved upward like the interior of a pearl, where the floor was made of a material that felt like...
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