The Faded Attic
The dream was always the same. Clara stood in the grey light of the attic, her face a mask of porcelain stillness, her fingers trembling around the emerald brooch. The stone was fractured, a jagged scar running through its green heart, and as she looked at me, the cold that emanated from her spread through my chest like ink in water. I woke with the taste of iron on my tongue and the sound of...
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