The Faded Apartment
The dream was always the same, a suffocating tableau of rot where the heartwood of a great oak tree had been hollowed out to resemble Elias Thorne’s own failing lungs, the air inside it thick with a sweet, fermented stench that whispered his name in a voice like dry leaves skittering over stone. He woke in the narrow cot of the inn in Caernarfon, the grey light of a November dawn filtering...
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