The Distant Journey
The dream did not arrive with the softness of a cloud or the gentle drift of snow, but with the sharp, metallic taste of iron and the heavy, suffocating weight of wet earth. Margaret Holloway found herself standing not in the cramped, damp cellar where she had fallen asleep after her shift at the textile mill, but on a plane of obsidian glass that stretched out into a horizonless void. The air...
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