The Distant Ghost
The dream always began with the sound of ice cracking on a winter lake, a sharp, brittle fracture that echoed not through water but through the hollows of Elias Thorne’s own chest, a sensation so visceral that he would often wake with the taste of cold metal on his tongue, his heart hammering against the ribs like a trapped bird. He lay in the silence of the bedroom, the sheets twisted around...
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