The Distant Summer
The left hand is a cartography of scars, a topographical map of failures that no amount of time can smooth. I trace the ridge of the knuckles, feeling the dry, rough texture of the skin against my thumb, and I think about how we are all just bundles of nerves and habits, waiting to be unmade by the next quiet afternoon. In the old world, they called this place the Manor, though it was a house,...
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