The Pale Banner
The fire started in the loom shed. It was a small thing at first, a spark from the high tension of the silk thread, but the wind in the valley had teeth that winter, and it fed the flame with a greedy, hissing hunger. I watched my life’s work curl into ash. The white cloth, the pale banner I had been weaving for three months, twisted in the heat. It did not burn cleanly. It smoked. It...
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