The Wistful Throne
Arie Dekker, forty-two, a master engraver in a cramped Rotterdam workshop, woke with the taste of wet pine in his mouth and a fresh, impossible scratch on the master block that matched the dream’s detail, the only uncanny element I would use: the wood remembers your guilt. The scratch ran deep, a thin white line against the dark grain, exactly where I had seen my sister’s cheekbone in the...
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