The Wistful Petal
The knife slices the apple with a wet, fibrous tear, the juice running dark and heavy over the steel of the blade, pooling in the bowl of your hand. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two, and the skin of your palm is mapped with a scar that has no business existing, a jagged line of white tissue that throbs in time with a pulse you cannot feel in your chest. It is your final shift on the border, a...
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