The Distant Blade
The air in the mill was thick enough to chew, a humid blanket of cotton dust and sweat that settled into the pores of the skin and made the very act of breathing feel like a laborious negotiation with the atmosphere. I stood before the mezzanine, my hand clenched around a bruised apple, the flesh yielding under the pressure of my knuckles until the juice bled out, dark and sticky, staining the...
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