The Pale Tower
The shuttle lay heavy in my palm, its wood worn smooth by forty years of my sweat, a weight that had once felt like a promise and now felt like a stone. I held it up to the firelight in the shop, where the air smelled of wet wool and the stale smoke of the hearth, and watched the tiny knot in the grain catch the flame, a small, bright eye staring back at me. Outside, the wind howled against the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews