The Distant Wound
In the dream, the bone did not break; it dissolved, turning into a fine, white powder that tasted of iron and old rain on his tongue, and when he woke in the sterile, humming dark of his apartment, the sensation remained, a ghostly pressure behind his left eye, a fracture line in the glass of his own perception that the morning light refused to heal. Elias Thorne sat up, his heart hammering a...
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