The Golden Myth
The resin was cold in Riku Ito’s hands, a slush of urushi and oil that smelled of rot and promise, and he was scraping the excess off the third panel of the screen with a bamboo spatula, his breath fogging in the drafty workshop where the heat had failed an hour ago. He was thirty-two, a master lacquerer in a region that had reinvented its own heritage to sell to tourists, and the commission...
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