The Faded Frontier
The dream began, as it always did, with the smell of wet slate and the sound of a bell that had not rung in a century. I was standing in the office of the Department of Anomalous Heritage, a room that smelled of dried lavender and old paper, though in the waking world it smelled only of recycled air and floor wax. In the dream, the walls were not plaster but living rock, shifting slowly, like a...
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