The Distant Affair
The needle slips. It slips again. Your fingers, thick and swollen at the knuckles, fail to grasp the fine thread. The tip of the needle catches on the satin, pulling a tiny, irreversible snag in the fabric. You stare at the hole. It is a black pinprick in the white expanse of the skirt, a wound that will not heal. You are Elias, fifty-two, a textile conservator of modest renown, and you are...
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