The Distant Crown
The badge is heavy. It has always been heavy. You hold it in your palm, the metal cold and dead. The edges are smooth. The engraving is gone. You rubbed it away years ago, or perhaps time did it. It doesn't matter. The metal remembers the shape of your hand, but it no longer knows your name. You sit in the kitchen. The light is gray. It is the light of a Tuesday afternoon, unremarkable, flat....
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