The Distant Wound

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 10:53:09 -

The Distant Wound

The ash falls like snow that has forgotten how to melt. It coats the slate roofs of Oakhaven, turning the village into a ghost of itself, a place where the air tastes of burnt iron and old regrets. I am twelve years old, and my lungs burn with a fever that is not entirely my own. I write this by the light of a tallow candle, the wax pooling in a black lake on the table. Outside, the wind howls...

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