The Wistful Crossroads
The glass jar in the center of the table was cracked. Not shattered. Not blown out. Just a hairline fracture, a white vein running from the rim down to the base, holding the contents together by sheer stubbornness. "You’re trembling," said Arthur. He did not look up from his ledger. His pen scratched against the paper, a dry, abrasive sound in the quiet room. "The vibration from the loom is...
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