The Distant Wound
Elara’s fingers moved with the precision of a loom shuttle, pulling the thread of the Silk tight against her wrist. The fabric, a bio-engineered weave that had replaced cotton in the State Rehabilitation Center, hummed a low, sub-audible frequency that vibrated in the bones of her forearm. It was a Tuesday, and the light in the corridor was the flat, sterile white of the 0900 shift, casting no...
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