The Distant Blade
The soup was cold, but you did not stir it. You sat at the edge of the table in the guest house, the wood worn smooth by decades of restless hands, and watched the steam die. It had risen in a thin, gray ribbon, promising warmth, before it dissolved into the heavy air of the room. Outside, the wind moved through the pines with a sound like distant, weeping voices. You were not a doctor. You...
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