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... above. No earth below. Just a bridge suspended in endless dusk—woven from strands of memory, each one humming with a different sorrow.

Raen walked barefoot now.

His boots had turned to ash somewhere between folds. The Threadrift had taken them as tax.

With each step, his skin met the living bridge. Every thread whispered.

His mother's voice, before her execution.

His first kill.

The weight of Lyra's hand in his.

Memories, gentle and brutal. ...

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