The Golden Myth
The chisel slipped, biting into the limestone with a sound like a cracking knuckle, and you watched the flake curl away, a jagged white tooth from the arch’s spine. Your hand, that treacherous instrument of twenty years’ labor, trembled so violently that the vibration traveled up your arm and settled in your chest, a cold, humming ache that you had learned to mistake for fatigue. You wiped your...
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