The Distant Joke

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2026-08-25 20:19:31 -

The Distant Joke

The weight of the obsidian shard in my hand was a cold, heavy thing, pressing against my palm like a bruise that would not heal. I remember the smell of the reclamation yard first, that metallic tang of dead machines and rusted iron that clung to the back of the throat, before I saw the figures in their grey coats standing at the gate. I was forty-two years old, Jerome Laraque, a surveyor of...

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