The Wistful Crossroads
The loom stood in the center of the room like a wooden ribcage, breathing with the slow, mechanical rhythm of the shuttle, its clack-clack a metronome that counted down the seconds of a life already spent in the service of thread and tension. Elias Thorne sat before it, his hands moving with the blind precision of a surgeon who had forgotten he was holding a scalpel, weaving a pattern of deep...
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