The Wistful Witness
The border is not a line drawn on a map, but a membrane, a thin and permeable skin that separates the known from the unknowable, and you have spent the last three days pressing your palm against it, feeling the hum of the other side vibrating through your bones, a low-frequency thrum that tastes like copper and ozone. You are an expatriate, a ghost in the machinery of a life that no longer...
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