The Distant Ghost
Siranush Gelashvili had forty-five years of calluses on her palms, and the walnut under her chisel was slipping. The smell of the workshop was a thick, cloying mix of varnish and old sweat, a scent that usually grounded her but today felt like a damp cloth over her face. She was carving a casket for a patron whose son arrived in three days, a commission that was the only thing standing between...
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