The Wistful Witness
The dream has a smell of wet ash and old copper, and in it, you are standing in the center of the great hall of the Abbey of St. Jude, your feet bare against the cold, cracked flagstones that stretch out into a darkness so profound it feels less like an absence of light and more like a physical weight pressing against your eardrums. You are not alone, though the air is thick with the silence of...
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