The Pale Exile
The chisel hits the granite. *Tink.* You count the strikes. One. Two. Three. Four. The stone does not care about your count. It is a block of gray, dense matter, waiting to be told what it is. You are Elias Thorne. You are forty-five years old. You have worked this stone for thirty years. You need this cornerstone done by Friday. If it is done by Friday, the pension is yours. If the pension is...
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