The Wistful Saga
The thread was red, and it had taken Arthur Vane four hours to count the stitches he had made to mend it. Forty-three stitches. That was the number. He held the shirt up to the window, where the November light was thin and grey, cutting through the dust motes that hung in the air like suspended ash. The fabric was a ruin, shredded into ribbons by an invisible force, yet he had sewn them back...
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