The Faded Dust
The needle slips through the fabric of the bell tower, a bright, sharp intruder in the dim, dusty air. You are hanging from the rigging, your fingers white-knuckled around the rope, the wind howling a low, mournful note that vibrates in your teeth. Below you, the cobblestones of the old town square look like a scattered field of teeth, small and hard and indifferent. You are not a thief. You...
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