The Distant Promise
You dream of the hem. It is a narrow strip of blue velvet, fraying at the edge, stained with the dark, tarry residue of the forge. In the dream, you are not old. You are young, your hands unblemished by the white flakes of lye and the deep gouges of steel. You hold the cloth up to the light, and the light does not pass through; it is absorbed, swallowed by the dense, heavy weave. The fabric...
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