The Pale Garden
The hammer bit into the oak, a dull, wet thud that vibrated up Elias’s arm and settled in his teeth. He was twelve, and his hands were already too big for the chisel, the wood shavings curling around his fingers like dried skin. The clock tower of Blackwood Hall had been silent for three years, ever since the mill went under and the bank took the deed, but today the gears were loose, and Elias...
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