The Wistful Silence
"You’re doing it again." The voice comes from the doorway. It is Elias. His face is a mask of calm, but his hands are shaking. He holds a ceramic bowl in his left hand. Inside, a thick, grey paste glistens under the fluorescent light. It smells of iron and old pennies. It smells of the earth that was turned up yesterday. "It’s not magic, Elias," you say. Your voice is steady. You are the...
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