The kiln in the basement of the old apothecary on Wicker Lane had not been lit in forty years, but I kept the flint and steel wrapped in oilcloth, as if the heat were a sleeping beast that might wake at my touch. I am a restorer of ceramics, a man who spends his days in the city’s damp underbelly, piecing together the broken lives of strangers. My hands are stained with slip and ash, a...
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