The Wistful Silence
The dream was of a line. Not a straight line, but a curve. A perfect, unbroken arc that held the weight of the sky. It was drawn in ink on parchment that smelled of old dust and iron. Elias stood at the edge of the paper. He held a pen. The tip was wet. He did not write. He watched the line hold. He woke in the gray light of the studio. The air was cold. The floorboards were bare. He sat up....
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