The Wistful Throne
The iron in your veins is not yours. You know this. It is the rust of the old world, the grit of the factory floor, the cold weight of a duty you did not choose but cannot shed. You sit in the high chair of the dining room, the wood worn smooth by generations of elbows and knees, and you watch the dust motes dance in the shaft of afternoon light. The house is silent. It has been silent for...
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