The Golden Scar
The dream was not of flight but of foundation, a deep, tectonic groan that vibrated through the marrow of your bones as you lay in the narrow cot of your service quarters, the ceiling above you weeping a thin, rhythmic condensation that smelled of ozone and rot. You woke to the sound of the city breathing, a low, wet inhalation that seemed to pull the warmth from the air, and the first thing...
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