The Wistful Dinner
The iron anvil in the center of the blacksmith’s forge was not merely a tool, but a boundary, a fixed point around which the world of Elias Thorne had contracted until it could breathe no more. For three years, since the fever took his wife and left him with a daughter who spoke only in the language of ash and smoke, the anvil had defined the perimeter of his existence. It was the edge of his...
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