The Distant Wound

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2026-08-23 06:17:37 -

The Distant Wound

The light in the basement was the color of old dishwater, a grey that clung to the damp stone walls. You counted the hours by the way the single bulb flickered, a stuttering pulse that matched the thumping in your ears. Fourteen hours since you left the station. You had packed a bag with the essentials: a change of clothes, a tin of sardines, a pen, and the logbook. The logbook was...

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