The Faded Photograph
The dream was not of darkness, but of a white room so vast it seemed to have no ceiling, only a diffuse, sourceless light that pressed against the eyes like deep water. In this space, Elias Thorne stood before a single object: a wooden lectern, worn smooth by centuries of hands, upon which lay a scroll of vellum. He knew, with the absolute certainty of instinct, that he had written it. The ink...
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