The Distant Affair
The dream began with the taste of iron. Not the red kind, but the cold, metallic tang of old machinery. It coated the tongue. It settled in the teeth. It was the taste of the archive. Elara woke in the grey light of the attic room. The air was still. Dust motes suspended in a single beam of sun that pierced the boarded window. She did not move. She lay on the straw mattress, listening to her...
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