The Wistful Ashes
I woke up with the taste of copper and wet stone in my mouth, the kind of flavor that lingers long after the dream has dissolved into the gray haze of a Tuesday morning, and I found myself sitting on the edge of the cot in the holding cell, my hands still wrapped around the hilt of a knife that wasn’t there, my fingers slick with a sweat that smelled of ozone and old blood. The walls here were...
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