The Distant Temple
The crack splits the bell’s lip like a vein in pale bone. You press the glaze against the fracture, the brush trembling in your grip, a fine shiver that starts in the wrist and travels up the arm. It is the winter solstice. The library is closed, the heating vents ticking their dry, metallic rhythm in the dark. You are Elias, fifty-two, a senior archivist, and you have one day to make this...
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