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Beyond the seventh summit of the seven ranges stands an empty needlemaker’s hut. Many years ago, a poor needlemaker lived there—back bowed low from long nights bent over his workbench. He smithed by the light of a single taper, ignorant of the stars that traded places with the sun. One evening, a song floated through his window. “Good sir or serf, please let me in My sight is gone, my eyes are...