The Alchemist's Grief

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2026-06-06 19:07:24 -

I. The notebook arrived with the rest of my father's effects, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine that had grown brittle with age. It was small, no larger than a prayer book, bound in leather the colour of dried blood. I was twelve years old, and London was a city I only knew through my father's stories of the mines—not Yorkshire anymore, but the memory of Yorkshire, because we had been...

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