The Distant Wound
Reginald's scar ran from the left temple down along the hairline, disappearing into the collar like a sentence cut short. Eleanor had known it all her life—the pale ridge of tissue, raised and smooth as a river delta on a map. It was not a dramatic wound. It did not weep or bleed or demand attention. It simply existed, a quiet rebellion against the perfection of the skin around it, a distance...
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