The Distant Wound

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 08:52:08 -

The Distant Wound

The bird was dead. It sat on the kitchen table. A wren. Small. Brown. Broken. Marta looked at it. She did not blink. Her coffee went cold in the mug. The steam stopped rising. The room was still. "It is done," she said. Her voice was flat. Dry. Like sand. She picked up the body. It was light. Feathers stuck to her fingers. She looked at her hands. They were shaking. Not from fear. From effort....

0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews