The Faded Root
The dream is always the same: a static field, white and humming, swallowing the edges of the room until only the center remains, a single silver point of light pulsing with a rhythm that feels less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown. I wake with the taste of copper in my mouth, the air in the bedroom thick and still, and I know, with a certainty that bypasses logic, that the house has...
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