The Distant Joke

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2026-08-24 00:20:56 -

The Distant Joke

1893, November 14. The wind is a physical weight against the stone of the Watchtower. It presses against my eyes, a cold, dry pressure that feels like the beginning of a long sleep. I am forty-two years old. My hands shake, a tremor that starts in the knuckles and travels up the bone, a sign I have ignored for three months. The Rot is in me. I can feel it, a cold itch beneath the skin of my...

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