The Distant Wound

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2026-08-17 13:23:24 -

The Distant Wound

The air in the Refectory tasted of copper and burnt sugar, a cloying sweetness that coated the back of your throat and refused to dissolve. You sat at the long oak table, your hands resting flat against the grain, the wood cold and damp despite the roaring furnaces that lined the walls of the industrial hall. Around you, the other women ate with a mechanical precision, their chins working in...

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