The Distant Blade
The silk is cold against your cheek. You press your face into it, breathing in the scent of cedar and old perfume. It is a handkerchief. A single, white square of fabric, folded with geometric precision. It belongs to no one. It belongs to everyone. It hangs from the corner of the mahogany desk by a single, brass pin. You are in the office. The glass walls reflect your suit, crisp and dark. You...
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