The Distant Wound

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2026-08-24 16:45:26 -

The Distant Wound

The silver pin was in my hand, cold and sharp against the palm, and I was trying to remember if it had ever actually been attached to anything other than memory. I was forty-two years old, a border warden in the Grey Wastes, and the object in my grip was a shattered fragment of the brooch my wife, Eleanor, had worn the day before the fever took her. I wanted it back, or rather, I wanted the...

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