The Distant Summer
The air tastes of copper and ozone. You are running. Your lungs burn with a chemical acidity that feels less like pain and more like a system error. The ground beneath your boots is not dirt. It is asphalt, cracked and weeping tar, stretching toward a horizon that has been erased by a wall of static. You do not look back. You know what is behind you. You know the weight of the thing you carry....
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