The Wistful Show
The frost had come early this year, settling into the crevices of the old mill like a secret kept too long. I remember the cold in my hands, the stiff, aching cold that told me my time was short. My name was Silas Vane, and I was the last of the Vane line, a weaver of cloth in the town of Oakhaven. The air in my workshop smelled of lanolin and damp wool, a scent that had become as familiar to...
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