The Wistful Show
The rain hammered against the leaded glass of the workshop window, a relentless drumming that seemed to count down the seconds until the inevitable. I sat at my bench, the wood shavings curling beneath my knife like dead leaves, and listened to the silence that was not silence. It was a fullness, a heavy air that pressed against my eardrums. "Thomas," a voice called from the corridor, soft but...
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