The Pale Garden
The ledger showed eleven days remaining until the frost, and you had only half the north wall raised. You counted the chisels on your workbench, four of them, their steel dull from use, their handles worn smooth by hands that were no longer steady. Your name was Elias Thorne, and you were a stonemason, though the title felt like a coat that had grown too large for your frame. The limestone...
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