The Distant Wound

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2026-08-22 00:16:44 -

The Distant Wound

The letter in your hand is not paper, but a sliver of your own dried skin, translucent and brittle, holding together the last fragment of a name that no longer belongs to you. You sit in the center of the glasshouse, a structure of leaded panes and rusted iron that has stood on this hilltop for a century, perhaps longer, though the world outside has shifted so violently that time itself seems...

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