The Distant Joke
The hammer head strikes the rusted gear, and the sound is wrong. It is a dull, wet thud, like a stone sinking into mud, and the vibration travels up your wrist, into the bone, settling there with a ache that feels older than your body. You pull the tool back. The red powder does not fly. It stays, clinging to the steel in a thick, velvet coat that seems to breathe in the dim light of the boiler...
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