The Distant Nightmare
Elara. The name was called out by the falling beam, a groan of timber that cracked through the rafters and brought the dust of the winter sky down upon my loom. I woke not to the sound of the shuttle, but to the silence of the broken frame, the great oak crossbeam lying across my worktable like a dead limb, its splintered end resting on the warp threads I had spent three days tensioning. The...
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