The Distant Wound
The iron kettle sits on the table. It is cold. You have not boiled water in three days. The dust settles in the cracks of the cast metal, a fine grey powder that mirrors the ash drifting down from the sky outside. You touch the handle. It is smooth. It is worn. Your fingers know the curve of it better than they know your own face. You have held it for so long that the metal has become part of...
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