The Pale Bridge
The dream was always the same, a recurring architectural hallucination that Arthur Vane woke from with the taste of wet iron on his tongue. He saw the Pale Bridge, not as it stood in the grey dawn of the city, but as it existed in the blueprints and in his mind: a gothic arch of impossible grace, suspended over a chasm of white fog. In the dream, the bridge did not just hold weight; it...
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