The Distant Wound

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2026-08-18 17:23:57 -

The Distant Wound

The rain fell in sheets. Gray. Cold. It slicked the cobblestones of the old town until they shone like wet slate. I watched it from the window of the train. The carriage rocked. A small, rhythmic thud. The rhythm of the world ending. Or perhaps beginning. It was hard to tell anymore. I am Thomas Bradshaw. A scholar of dead languages. I spent forty years in dust. In silence. In the quiet...

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