The Distant Garden
The wind in the high desert did not blow; it stripped. It scraped the paint from the outpost’s walls and the sound from Elias Thorne’s throat. He stood at the wire fence, thirty-four years old, his uniform stiff with dried sweat, watching the glass hand reach through the mesh. It was his hand. Or rather, it was the hand he had lost in the incident three years ago, reconstructed from memory and...
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