The Wistful Atlas
The trowel was cold in Elias’s hand, the steel bit worn smooth by twenty years of use. He pressed it against the wet mortar, checking the adhesion with the thumb of his right hand, feeling for the give that signaled a weak bond. The air in the nave of the Grand Cathedral smelled of damp limestone and old sweat, a scent that had settled into the pores of the stone walls and the wool of his coat....
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