The Golden Myth
The glass was thin. It trembled under the weight of the light. Elias sat in the shop, his hands resting on the workbench, still. The air smelled of dust and old varnish. Outside, the city hummed a low, indifferent note. Rain slicked the cobblestones. It turned the gray sky into a bruise. Elias was a mender. He fixed what others had broken. Vases. Frames. The delicate spines of books. He did not...
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