The Quiet Architecture of Shared Scars and the Scent of Zinc on an Autumn Afternoon
CHAPTER 1: THE WEIGHT OF THE HINGE “I never thought I’d see something like this again,” the old man said, his voice scraping against the quiet of the linoleum floor like dry leaves. The metal keepsake tin sat in his palms, its zinc edges grayed and dulled by decades of skin oil. It wasn’t large—no…