The Distant Affair
The wood screamed. It was not a metaphor, nor a figure of speech for the friction of blade against fiber. It was a high, thin shriek that tore through the quiet of the mill house, vibrating in my teeth and settling in the marrow of my bones. I stood before the workbench, the chisel in my hand, the oak plank before me. The grain was dark, almost black, swirling with patterns that looked like...
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