The Distant Wound
The glass cracked. It did not shatter. It did not explode. It simply split. A thin, white vein ran from the rim to the base of the vessel. I held it. My hands were shaking. The broth inside was still warm. It smelled of thyme and salt and the iron tang of my own blood. I looked up. They were watching. Always watching. The walls of the cell were smooth. White. Seamless. There were no corners....
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