The Distant Wound
The air in the holding cell was thick with the scent of wet wool and the metallic tang of fear, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed against your lungs as you sat on the cold iron bench, your fingers trembling around the strap of your satchel, a strap that had once been the color of midnight and was now faded to the pale, bruised purple of a storm cloud that had long since passed. You were...
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