The Pale Path
The dream is always the same, a viscous loop of molten silica and your own face distorting in the heat, the glass moving while you stand still, a pale, ghostly hand reaching out from the furnace to break the surface of your reflection. You wake with the taste of ash in your mouth and the cold sweat of the cellar clinging to your skin, the heavy iron door of the workshop groaning open as you...
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