The Faded Paradox
The needle pierced the wool. Again. And again. I am old. My hands shake. But the stitch holds. I sit in the parlor. The fire is low. The shadows lengthen. They call me the Saint of Millhaven. That is what the town says. They whisper it over coffee. They point at my door. They say I am holy. They are wrong. I am a thief. I stole my life. From him. From Arthur. He is gone now. Ten years. The...
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