The Distant Wound
The glass was cold against Elias’s palm, gritty with decades of dust and neglect. "It’s not a ghost, Warden," Elias said, his voice tight, vibrating in his chest. "It’s a prison." Warden Kael did not look up from his ledger. The pen moved in a steady, rhythmic scratch. "The damp in these archives plays tricks, Elias. You know that. Go back to your shelf." Elias did not move. He stood in the...
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