The Wistful Mirror
The wind does not howl here; it grinds, a low, tectonic friction against the bones of the earth, and you stand in the center of that grinding silence, forty-two years old, a linguist who has spent his life categorizing the chaos of human speech but can now find no word for the hollow, gnawing emptiness that has begun to eat your own limbs from the inside out. In your hands, wrapped in a layer...
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