The Wistful Saga
Act I Ying Liang remembered the weight of the clay before the smell of the rot, a memory that lived in the muscle of his wrist, heavy and cold as the winter water. He stood in the workshop at sixty-three of the Ferry Slip, the air thick with the damp scent of drying fish and the sharper, metallic tang of his father’s blood, which had stained the floorboards three days prior. The ancestral urn...
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