The Distant Crown
The glass shatters. Not the window. The mirror. You are running. Your lungs burn. The air tastes of coal dust and wet wool. You hold the frame in your hands. It is heavy. It is cold. It is the only thing you own that matters. Behind you, the doors bang shut. They are coming. You know the rhythm of their boots on the stone floor. *Thud. Thud. Thud.* It is the heartbeat of the factory. It is the...
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