The Distant Metropolis
The ink on the page was still wet when I looked up, the nib of my pen hovering like a suspended breath. "Elias," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands, "tell them I have broken the cycle. Tell them the nightmares have ceased." The boy, young and pale with the damp air of the mill, did not look at me. He stared at the floorboards, where a drop of ink had fallen and spread into a...
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