The Distant Ghost
Chapter One My hands were already stained with the indigo dye when the under-secretary, a man named Rostam whose tie was knotted with surgical precision, stepped into the loom room and announced that my work was spiritually impure. I was forty-two, a weaver in the mist-shrouded valley of Aethel, where the air itself hums with a persistent, low-frequency vibration that settles in the teeth, and...
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