The Wistful Crossroads
The cart rattled over the cobblestones. Dust rose. It smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elias pulled the reins. His hands were thick. Calloused. He looked at the road. It wound up the hill. Toward the city. Toward the gate. He carried the glass. It was wrapped in wool. It was warm. It pulsed. Like a heart. Like a lung. He had made it. In his workshop. In the dark. It was not just glass. It was...
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