Mara sat in the cellar. The air tasted of wet stone and old iron. She held the dress. It was white. Once it had been white. Now it was the color of bone.
She pulled the thread.
It snapped.
The fabric did not tear. It sighed. A low, rattling sound, like dry leaves skittering across a grave.
"Is it ready?" Mara asked. Her voice was thin. It scraped against the silence.
No one answered. The...
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