The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 10:55:47 -

The Distant Wound

You are standing in a field of black glass, and the sky is not a sky but a ceiling of rusted iron, humming with the vibration of distant machinery. The air smells of ozone and wet ash. You look down at your hands. They are not your hands. They are made of wire and pale porcelain, stiff and cold, bound by thick bands of leather. You remember being Margaret. You remember the smell of lavender in...

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