The Wistful Voyage
The dream does not wake you; it holds you, a cold hand over your mouth, until the distinction between the sleeping body and the dreaming mind dissolves into the grey mist of the valley. You are standing in the village of Oakhaven, or perhaps it is a place that only exists in the fold of your exhaustion, a realm where the air tastes of wet ash and old iron. Here, the walls of the cottages are...
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