The Golden Downtown
The dream was always the same, a precise architectural failure rendered in gold, where the walls of the house on Sycamore Street did not fall but dissolved, the load-bearing beams turning to light and the floorboards evaporating into a void that smelled of ozone and old paper, leaving Elias Thorne standing in a space that had no depth, only an infinite, blinding radiance that hummed with the...
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