The Distant Joke
The chisel bit into my palm before it touched the stone. I had been trying to keep my hand steady for three days, but the cold iron of the workshop floor was seeping into my bones, and the fever in Mara’s room was a drumbeat I could hear even through the walls. I am Elias. I am forty years old, and my hands are the only things that have not changed in a decade, though the world around them has...
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