The Faded Guest
The paper lay on the workbench, its edges curling in the damp air, a bill from the apothecary for tonics that would not come. You held the chisel above the moss, the steel cold against your palm, and for a long moment the only sound in the shop was the tick of the clock and the wet, heavy breathing of the stone. It had been three years since the crack appeared, a thin line running down the face...
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