The Wistful Letter
The chisel strikes the limestone, and the spark of impact travels up your arm, a sharp, electric jolt that stops in the jagged ruin of your left wrist. You catch the tool before it drops, your right hand white-knuckled against the wood, the vibration humming through the bone of your shoulder where the rot has begun to whisper. It is October, 1893, and the air in the workshop smells of wet chalk...
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