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... Just pale and endless — like walking through clouds that didn’t move.

Ethan Albarado stood barefoot, the surface beneath him unrecognizable — soft, yet firm. Real, yet dreamlike. There was no wind. No sound. Only that strange pressure in his chest.

He looked down at his hands.

But they weren’t his hands.

Not anymore.

They were pale fingers longer, bones more prominent, faded calluses along the side where a pencil once rested. Not the hardened grip of a bas ...

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