The Wistful Witness
The floorboards groan under the weight of your history. You stand in the center of the workshop, a cathedral of dust and silence. The air is thick with the scent of aged oak and linseed oil, a perfume that has seeped into your skin over forty years. You are a restorer. You mend the broken. You patch the torn. But today, your hands tremble. Not from age, though your joints ache with the memory...
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