The Wistful Silence
The crack in the Great Bell of St. Jude did not sound like a break in metal, but like the snapping of a dry bone deep within the earth, a sound that vibrated through the soles of my boots and into the marrow of my spine as I stood before the Guild Master, my hands still stained with the white ash of the kiln. I am Elias, a glassblower of forty years, and in that moment, the air in the chapel...
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