The Pale Echo
The dream was always the same. Mara stood in the center of the room, her face a pale, static mask, her mouth open in a silent scream that I could feel as a physical weight on my chest. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth, the air in the bedroom thick and unbreathable. It was three in the morning. The manuscript lay on the nightstand, the ink glistening wet, though it had dried hours ago....
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