The Pale Shadows
You have to put the chisel down, Elias. The words hung in the cold air of the workshop, sharp as the iron in my hand. Old Thomas stood by the door, his breath pluming in the grey light that filtered through the high, dust-caked windows. He was seventy, maybe more, his face a map of deep fissures carved by wind and worry. I looked at the marble block on the workbench. It was white, veined with...
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