The Wistful Grid
The chisel slips, carving a shallow, jagged line into the oak block. You catch the edge of your thumb against the grain, the pain sharp and immediate, a red bead of blood welling before it is wiped away on your apron. It is a small wound, insignificant in the grand ledger of the day, yet it throbs with a dull, persistent heat that matches the damp chill seeping through the floorboards of the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima