The Faded Frontier
Your chisel bites into the granite of the foundation stone, the impact sending a shockwave of cold through your knuckles, up your wrist, and settling in the marrow of your shoulder, where the ache of four years’ labor has calcified into a permanent companion. The cellar is damp, a wetness that does not merely cling to the skin but seems to seep into the pores, carrying with it the scent of wet...
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