The Pale Shadows
The loom clattered in the small, airless room, a sound like the slow, grinding teeth of a millstone. Elias Thorne sat hunched over the frame, his fingers working the shuttle with a rhythm that had become less a craft and more a prayer. The air was thick with the dust of wool and the stale sweetness of lavender sachets that hung from the rafters, dried out and brittle as old skin. He was weaving...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews