The Distant Summer
You are holding the wrong piece, Thomas. The light in the cellar was thick with dust motes that swirled in the single beam cutting through the high window, illuminating the rough-hewn table where Elian had spread his tools like a surgeon preparing for an operation on a corpse. He stared at the shard in Thomas’s hand, a jagged triangle of red clay that did not match the curvature of the neck he...
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