The Distant Clue
The loom stands in the center of the room. It is a heavy thing, wood darkened by time and oil. You sit before it. Your hands are stained with indigo. The thread is taut. You pull. It sings a low note. The air is thick. It smells of wet wool and old iron. Outside, the wind howls against the stone walls. Inside, there is only the click of the shuttle. You are Elias. You are the weaver. You have...
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