The Distant Whispers
The chisel bit into the oak, a sharp, wet sound that seemed too loud in the stillness of the workshop, and you pulled your hand back as if the wood had bitten you. The grain was tight, dark as dried blood, and it smelled of pine sap and old dust, a scent that had begun to cling to your clothes, your hair, the inside of your nostrils, refusing to wash away no matter how often you scrubbed. You...
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