The Wistful Saga
The trowel was heavy in his hand, a slab of steel that had seen better decades, its edge dull from years of scraping mortar that never quite dried right. Elias Thorne stood before the half-finished wall of St. Jude’s, the dust settling on his collar like a second skin, and listened to the stone. It was not a sound that came from the air, but a vibration that traveled up through the soles of his...
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