The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 06:32:04 -

The Distant Wound

The banquet hall of the Institute for Temporal Preservation smelled of burnt sugar and ozone, a cloying perfume that clung to the back of your throat like a secret too large to swallow. You sat at the long table, your fingers wrapped tightly around the stem of a glass that was already empty, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of pale, artificial light that cut through the heavy velvet...

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