The Golden Song
The cart wheels groaned against the cobblestones as Silas Vane drove his small, unadorned wagon out of the market square, the dust of the town settling in the creases of his brow. He was a man of few words and many hands, a clockmaker who had traded the delicate tweezers of his trade for the heavy reins of a livelihood, yet the precision remained in his posture, in the way he held the leather...
0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews