The Distant Crown
The dream is not a dream but a suffocating prelude to the waking, a thick, wet darkness that presses against your lungs like damp wool until you gasp into the cold, stale air of the basement archive, the smell of rotting paper and wet earth so pungent it coats the back of your throat with a taste of decay that feels less like odor and more like a physical weight settling into your bones. You...
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