The Distant Wound
The chisel slips. It does not snap, nor does it break the metal; it simply refuses to bite, sliding off the surface of the plate with a sound like a fingernail on glass. You look at your hand. The skin is pale, stretched tight over the knuckles, but from the cut on your thumb, a bead of dark red ink wells up. It is not blood. It is ink. It smells of iron and old libraries. You wipe it on your...
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