The Distant Legend
The tapestry was not a decoration, but a skin, stretched over the ribs of the room like a drum awaiting a strike that would never come, and Julian Ashworth stood before it with the specific, brittle tension of a man who has been told his own heartbeat is a criminal act, his fingers hovering over the frayed hem where the wool had begun to rot into a brown, fibrous paste that smelled of wet earth...
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