The Wistful Silence
The smell of hot tallow and old iron filled the workshop, a thick, suffocating fog that seemed to press against the inside of my skull. I stood at the bench, my hands steady only because they were wrapped in wet rags, working the final tempering on a set of hinges for the chapel door. The metal glowed a dull, angry orange, then faded to a bruised purple as I pulled it from the fire. My master,...
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