The Golden Scar
The ink on the back of your hand is fading, not into nothingness, but into the skin itself, becoming a bruise that never quite resolves, a dark map of your lineage that the doctors in the high spires of the Capitol refuse to acknowledge because it contradicts the neat, sterile charts they keep in their climate-controlled archives. You are walking, and you have been walking for three days, your...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews