The Wistful Grid
The silver case was cold against my palm, heavier than it had been a year ago, or perhaps I had simply grown lighter. I stood at the window of my office in the field hospital, the glass fogging with the breath of the February false spring that had settled over the Cypriot interior like a damp shroud. Outside, the forge was hammering again, that rhythmic, metallic thud that vibrated in my teeth...
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