The Pale Altar
You are the Keeper of the Loom, a title that sounds less like a job description and more like a funeral rite, and you have held the silver comb for forty years. It is a small thing, wrought from a metal that does not tarnish, its teeth so fine they look like the frost on a windowpane, yet it is the only thing in the entire institution that feels heavy in your hand. The building is the St....
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