The Faded Paradox
The dream was a house made of ice, and in the center of the living room stood a chair so worn that the wood had turned to dust, the dust to ash, the ash to a fine gray powder that smelled of old paper and rain. Thomas Waverly stood before it, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the memory attached to the object. He did not know why he was there. He did not...
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