The Wistful Grid
The dream came to me again, as it has every night since the frost bit into the earth, a vision so vivid and terrible that I woke with the taste of ash on my tongue and the heat of a fire that had no fuel, and in the center of that inferno hung a red coat, burning without consuming itself, a garment that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of a dying man, and I knew with a certainty that settled...
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