The Faded River

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 08:02:09 -

The Faded River

You hold the chisel. It is cold. The steel bites the oak. Shavings curl. They smell of sap and rain. You are in the workshop. The windows are high. Dust motes dance in the shafts of light. You are carving a door. Or perhaps a panel. It does not matter. The wood is hard. You strike. Again. The rhythm is your heartbeat. Outside, the city sleeps. Or wakes. It is hard to tell. The bells ring....

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