The Wistful Mountain
Thorne! Move it, you old fool! The voice cut through the roar of the crowd like a blade through wet wool. Elias Thorne did not move. He stood in the center of the square, the cobblestones slick with rain and the runoff from the tannery three streets over. In his hands, he held the bowl. It was not whole. It had been whole when he took it from the shelf in his kitchen that morning, a ceramic...
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