The Faded Root
The dream was a library, but the books were made of ice. I remember the cold biting into my fingertips as I tried to open the spine of a volume titled *The Anatomy of Silence*. The pages did not turn; they shattered. A fine, crystalline dust settled on the floor, and in the sudden quiet, I heard a voice. It was not a voice, exactly, but a frequency, a low hum that vibrated in the marrow of my...
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