The Golden Crossing
The thread is cold again, Elias thought, watching the pale gold filament shiver in the damp air, and he reached for it with fingers that had forgotten the sensation of warmth. The loom groaned, a low, wooden complaint that echoed off the stone walls of the mill, a sound that had become as familiar to him as his own breathing over the last seven years. He was fifty-two, though the mirror in the...
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