The Faded Portrait
"You missed the buttonhole again." Elias Thorne did not look up from the mirror, where the light was already failing, turning the dust motes in the air into a slow, grey suspension. He held the needle steady, his hand not trembling, though the fatigue in his shoulders felt like a physical weight, a sack of wet sand strapped to his spine. The room was the refectory of the Monastery of St. Jude,...
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