The Wistful Grid
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, metallic drizzle that turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into slick mirrors reflecting the grey, bruised sky. You sat in the back of your workshop, the air thick with the smell of ozone and damp wood, watching the water trace erratic, fractal patterns down the windowpane. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had begun to lose...
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