The Faded Dust
The chisel slips. It is a small thing, a minor misstep of the wrist, but in the silence of the workshop it sounds like a gunshot. I stare at the oak. A clean, white splinter has erupted from the grain. It is jagged. It is ugly. It is my face, reflected in the wood. I pull the shard out. It snaps. The dust settles on the floor, a fine, gray snow that no amount of sweeping can quite erase. I am...
0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews