They left the comic on the Baron’s desk.
“Old woman,” he sneered, watching Mira punch a tuft of lilac wool into the shape of a witch’s cackle. “Your ‘comics’ are inefficient. One story takes you a month. My press prints a hundred pages an hour. And they’re flat . Modern.” tufos quadrinhos
The next morning, he returned the Dreaming Sheep. He burned his stamping press. And he became Mira’s first apprentice, learning to tuft stories not of conquest, but of connection—each soft, bumpy square a heartbeat made visible. They left the comic on the Baron’s desk