The Faded Chronicle
The table groaned under the weight of silver and glass. Miles stood. He raised his glass. "To the house," he said. "To the work," his son, Julian, whispered. Miles drank. The wine was red. Like blood. Like the thread he had pulled. He looked at Julian. Julian looked down. His hands were shaking. The hands of a tailor. Miles had taught him. Every stitch. Every cut. Now Julian held the shears....
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