The Distant Nightmare
The weight of the oak sapling was exactly four ounces and two grams, a fact Philip Underhill knew because he had weighed it every morning for the last three years. It sat on the desk in his study, a blackened, twisted thing that looked less like a plant and more like a coal that had forgotten how to burn. Philip adjusted his glasses, the lenses smudged with the dust of the archive, and stared...
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