The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 06:34:27 -

The Distant Wound

The house did not smell of rot, which was the first wrongness, and it did not smell of the sweet, cloying decay that usually accompanied the long, slow exhalation of a dying winter, but it smelled of ozone and wet iron, a scent that clung to the back of my throat like a physical presence, a taste of copper that I could not wash away with the endless cups of cold tea that Margaret poured with...

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