The Distant Joke
The wool of the tunic feels like a living thing against your skin, a coarse, prickling intimacy that you have worn so long it has become indistinguishable from your own flesh, and yet, as you stand before the cracked mirror in the damp stone cell of the Inquisition’s lower archive, you see only the fracture, the terrible, hairline fissure that runs through the heart of the garment, a split that...
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