The Pale Dance

added blog Literature

2026-08-25 13:59:15 -

The Pale Dance

The shuttle sat in my palm, heavy and cold, its wood grain worn smooth by twenty years of my sweat. I held it up to the single candle on the workbench, turning it slowly, watching the wax drip in a slow, steady line onto the table below. Outside, the wind was picking up, a low moan that rattled the shutters of my workshop in the village of Glencoe. It was the night of the first hard frost, and...

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