The Wistful Show
Amit Nair’s chisel slipped against the limestone, the tip catching on a vein of quartz that had no business being there. The sound was a sharp, dry crack, like a bone breaking in a silent room. He did not flinch. His hand was already trembling, a fine, persistent vibration that had begun the moment he stepped out of the printing house on Corvid Lane, eighty-four of which was just a number on a...
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