The Wistful Silence
The invoice lay on the workbench, the ink still wet where Aldous had signed it. It was a standard form, the kind the town clerk kept in a drawer lined with dried lavender to keep the moths away. Elias read the figure at the bottom: four hundred crowns for the final spire. It was a sum that would have bought a house, a horse, and enough grain to last a decade. He did not look up. His eyes were...
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