The Wistful Mountain
The chisel is heavier than it looks. You know this because you have held it for three hours, your knuckles white, the stone beneath your fingers sweating a fine, gritty dust that stings the eyes. Master Halloway stands in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of granite indifference. He does not shout. He does not strike. He simply looks at the scrap of slate in your...
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