The Distant Wound
The pin was gone. It was not lost, nor had it been misplaced in the static-charged shuffle of your wool cardigan; it had been taken, plucked from the lapel with the delicate, surgical precision of a man who knows exactly where the blood is thickest. You remember the weight of it, that cold, metallic anchor that held the red enamel brooch in place, a small, defiant splash of color against the...
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