He was sitting on the steps of the dried-up fountain, not carving wood, but carving air. His hands moved with the precise, terrible economy of a man who has done one thing for ten thousand days. A long, thin splinter of nothing took shape between his fingers.
“They don’t last,” Remsl said, standing. “Nothing does. That’s why you have to make so many.” He was sitting on the steps of the
“Don’t cry,” Remsl said, not unkindly. “That’s just the shape of it settling into you. It’s meant to fit.” not carving wood