The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-22 12:41:58 -

The Wistful Grid

The dream was of the gate. Not the iron one, but the old oak that stood beside it, its bark peeling in long, grey strips like dead skin. In the dream, you were young, your hands steady, and you were trying to carve your name into the wood, but the knife slipped. You woke with the taste of copper in your mouth, the dawn light grey and thin across the floorboards of your post house. It was...

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