The Wistful Petal
The mortar in Elias Thorne’s trowel had a specific, heavy consistency that he could judge by the sound it made against the brick, a dull, wet thud that signaled the correct ratio of lime and sand. He was a master mason in the village of Oakhaven, a place where the stone was old and the air tasted of iron and damp earth, and for thirty years his hands had known the language of walls better than...
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