The Wistful Saga
The ledger lay open on the workbench, the paper yellowing at the edges where my thumb had rested for twenty years. I wrote the date in the margin, the ink black and dry, a small, sharp wound in the white silence of the page. It was Tuesday, and the shop was cold, a draught slipping under the door and curling around my ankles like a stray cat. I needed to repair the sapphire bezel of Margaret’s...
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