The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 08:47:33 -

The Distant Wound

The iron shackle was cold. It bit into my ankle with a dull, persistent ache that had become the rhythm of my days. I sat in the corner of the high-ceiled room, my fingers laced together in my lap. My hands were rough. They were no longer the hands of the lady who once played the harp in the solar. They were the hands of a prisoner. The stone walls wept with damp. The air smelled of wet wool...

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