The Wistful Mirror
"Put down the wrench, Pensri. You are shaking the table." The voice of Somchai Phanurat cut through the low hum of the banquet hall, sharp and final. Twelve-year-old Pensri looked up from the roasted duck, his eyes fixed not on the meat but on the brass astrolabe resting on the silver tray beside his father’s elbow. The instrument caught the light of the oil lamps, its rings gleaming like the...
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