The Wistful Show
The dream always begins with the smell of wet earth and the sound of tearing, a visceral, primal urge that wakes me before the sun has fully breached the horizon, my hands trembling with the instinct to find the source of the decay that has consumed my thirty-four years as a wandering restorer of ancient manuscripts, a profession that demands I treat time not as an enemy to be defeated but as a...
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