The Pale Dance
The dream was always the same. Elias Thorne woke with his hands submerged in a pool of white fire, the silica so hot it felt less like heat and more like a structural failure of the soul. He was thirty-four, a master glassblower whose name now appeared in the city’s cultural quarterly, and he was terrified. The commission for the city museum, a piece titled "Aurora," was due by Friday. His...
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