The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-22 08:29:12 -

The dream always starts with the taste of iron and wet earth. I am standing in the boiler room of Blackwood Asylum, the air thick with the steam of a world that has forgotten how to breathe, and my father is there. He is not a ghost, but a man made of rust-colored sap, his features smoothing out, dissolving into the brickwork as if he were being absorbed by the building itself. I wake with the...

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