The Distant Wound

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2026-08-23 01:15:36 -

The Distant Wound

The steam in the Oakhaven textile mill did not smell of cotton; it smelled of iron and old blood. I was thirty-two years old, an inspector of third-grade weave integrity, and I had not slept in four days. In the pocket of my grey wool apron, my fingers traced the cold, jagged edge of a silver brooch. It was my mother’s. She had died three weeks ago, and the Bureau of Uniformity mandated that...

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