The Faded Attic
The dream is always the same: a room made of breath. You stand in the center of the attic at St. Jude’s Orphanage, the rafters creaking like the joints of a giant waking from sleep. The air is thick, tasting of copper and wet earth, and the shadows in the corners are not empty; they shift, mimicking the small, frantic movements of children who have been dead for decades. You wake with your...
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