The Distant Nightmare
The nightmare always came first, a wash of white static that erased the script before the ink could dry, and only when Emiko Ito opened her eyes did the silence of the cellar settle back into place, heavy and damp. She was forty, her hands trembling not from cold but from the sheer weight of the task before her: to transcribe the final decree of the Imperial Court before the sun set, a duty...
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