The Distant Summer
The workshop smelled of wet limestone and the sharp, metallic tang of rusted iron, a scent that had permeated the fibers of Elias Thorne’s clothes so thoroughly that he could no longer distinguish his own skin from the stone he shaped. It was a midsummer day in the highlands of the Scottish Borders, the air thick with the promise of rain that never quite arrived, hovering instead in a heavy,...
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