The Distant Clue
The dream comes first. It always does. You stand in a field of white lilies, the petals broad and heavy as hands. The wind is still. The air tastes of iron and old dust. In the dream, you are whole. The lilies are whole. Then the sun rises, not warm but bright, and the flowers shatter. They do not wilt. They break. Glass shards of white petal rain down onto your skin. They cut. They do not...
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