The Distant Wound

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2026-08-22 13:02:18 -

The Distant Wound

The ledger showed four hundred and twelve hours. I counted them twice, the ink still wet on the page, each stroke a small, dark cut in the white paper. My father’s name was at the top, struck through in red, the error corrected by a hand that did not tremble. I was twelve, but my joints felt stiff, the cartilage grinding like sand in a hinge. The Ministry of Silence smelled of damp wool and...

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