The Distant Ghost
The iron in the anvil hums a low, subsonic note that you feel not with your ears but in the marrow of your teeth, a vibration that has become as familiar to you as the rhythm of your own breathing. You stand in the shadow of the high vaulted ceiling, the air thick with the scent of sulfur and heated oil, your hands wrapped in leather gloves that are stiff with the years of service you have...
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