The Wistful Throne
The alarm did not ring. It simply ceased to exist. Silence. Absolute, heavy silence. Miles sat on the edge of his cot. The wool blanket was cold. The air smelled of dust and old paper. Outside the barred window, the sky was a bruised purple. Dusk. Or dawn. It did not matter. He looked at his hands. They were still there. But they were wrong. The fingers were too long. The skin was translucent,...
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