The Distant Nightmare
The ink on your father’s wedding band has faded to a dull, brownish smear, a ghost of the gold it used to be. You keep it in your pocket, not for the metal, but for the weight of the mistake it represents. It is a Tuesday in November, the kind of grey, wet day that makes the city of Chicago feel less like a concrete jungle and more like a damp sponge. You are walking, you are always walking,...
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