The Wistful Witness
The train cuts through the valley like a knife through wet cloth, and you sit in the corner, watching your hands. They are the hands of a man who has built things, who has coaxed shape from formless matter, who has known the precise tension of a chisel against oak. But now they tremble. A fine, high-pitched vibration that starts in the knuckles and travels up the bones to the shoulder. You...
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