The Pale Letter
Act I Da-eun Cho’s hands were already deep in the wet clay when the smell of the infirmary reached him, a sharp, medicinal tang of boiled herbs and rusted iron that cut through the dust of the workshop. He was shaping the lid of a small coffin, the wood still green and smelling of pine sap, his chisel moving in short, decisive strokes that stripped away the imperfections of the grain. The year...
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