The Wistful Ashes
The hand was broken again. Not the bone, which had long since knit in a crooked, painful geometry, but the memory of the fracture, splintering under the weight of a hammer that did not exist. Elias Thorne woke with a gasp, the phantom pain sharp in the left ulna, the wrist twisted at an angle that defied the anatomy of a living man. He lay in the narrow cot of his apartment, the walls thin...
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