The Pale Bridge
The bridge was pale, a strip of bone-white stone spanning a void of grey fog, and as Elias Thorne watched it crumble in his sleep, the sound was not of stone breaking but of fabric tearing, a wet, fibrous rip that echoed in the silence of the dream. He woke with his hands clutching the duvet, the damp cold of the November air pressing against the windowpane of the master bedroom, and it was...
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