The Distant Wound
The kettle clicked. The silence followed. Elias stood in the kitchen. The tiles were cold. He held the cup. It was white. Porcelain. Thin. The house was old. Stone walls. High ceilings. Dust in the beams. He was a scholar. He studied the archive. The Ministry watched. They liked order. They liked silence. Elias looked at the cup. It was cracked. A hairline fracture. It ran from the rim to the...
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