Remsl Info

The town of Hailsham-Under-Wood knew him as the woodcarver’s ghost. Children whispered that if you pressed your ear to the bark of the old sentinel oak at the crossroads, you could hear the shush-shush-shush of his knife, paring away the world one curl at a time.

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. The town of Hailsham-Under-Wood knew him as the

Remsl smiled. It was a small, inward thing, like a knot in wood. “Same sickness. You try to trap what’s gone. I try to set it free.” His hands moved with the precise, terrible economy

“Don’t cry,” Remsl said, not unkindly. “That’s just the shape of it settling into you. It’s meant to fit.” It was a small, inward thing, like a knot in wood