The Distant Legend

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2026-08-23 21:23:07 -

March 14. The dream was of roots. Not the clean, white taproots of a garden, but the gnarled, black tangles of an old oak, digging into stone. I woke with my fingers clawing at the air, seeking a bark that wasn’t there. The cell is cold. It is always cold. I am forty-two years old, and I have spent the last six in this concrete box, waiting for the clock to stop. I want to see the tree. Just...

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