The Distant Wound
Act I "You cannot have the limb, Doctor. It is my tool." The sentence hung in the air of the sterile ward, heavy and useless, as Dr. Kalandadze adjusted the cuff of his white coat. He did not look at me. He looked at the chart, a thick folder of grey paper that smelled of ink and cold authority, and he tapped a line with his pen, a gesture so precise it felt like a small, final verdict. "The...
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