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It was not for the knife to judge. Today it had fulfilled its purpose. Tomorrow, next year, a century from now, it would do the same, until it too was broken.
Hidden in its cocoon, the obsidian butterfly waited to become.
“That would be a fine thing, to hear that fiddle played as it should be,” the ferryman said, mostly to hisself. He cast an eye over the dark expanse of river, dotted with white ice cakes. “You sure, jacks? A trip like this, it rarely takes you where you’re planning.”
There’s other ways to start this one, but this time, we'll start with the ferryman.
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Introduced by the author, posing questions as to who stories belong to and whether they matter.
From the Archives:
We are borne up by fate like leaves on the wind, and sometimes carried home.