The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-18 22:43:46 -

The loom stopped. It did not break. It did not jam. It simply ceased to breathe. The wooden frame, seasoned by forty years of my hands, sat silent in the dim workshop. Dust motes danced in the shafts of gaslight that cut through the gloom. I stood before it. My fingers were stained with indigo and rust. I did not touch it. Not yet. Eleanor had left. Or so the town said. Or so the constable...

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