“Yea, I’m sober. And the ripples bother me less than a stubbed toe. Not a problem. What gives?” He stops tapping the envelope and hands it to me without a word. Elaborate decorations covers the exterior. Inside is a handwritten note written in a language I can not read. But I can feel the impetus it carries. Weaver is being called upon. By name. Weaver has stories to tell.
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