The Distant Wound
The frost has not yet formed on the panes of the glasshouse, yet the air inside is thick with the scent of rotting peat and the metallic tang of iron, a smell that has seeped into the very fibers of your wool sweater over the last three years, a scent that defines the boundary between your former self and the man who now stands trembling before the Director’s oak desk, the desk that is polished...
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