The Wistful Letter
The lead cames bit into my palm before I could set the final piece of cobalt glass, a sharp, hot line of pain that made me drop the tool and stare at the wound as if it were a foreign object, a splinter of iron that had no business living in the flesh of a man who had spent thirty years handling the most delicate materials in the city. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I have been the...
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