The Distant Wound
The name "Vane" hung in the air of the interrogation room, heavy and sharp, before Elias even opened his eyes. He was awake, sitting at the steel table, the metal cold against his thighs. The dream had left its usual residue, a phantom pressure in his right hand where Thomas’s fingers had once curled. Thomas, dead three years now, his small hand in Elias’s, withered in the sleep into a claw...
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