The Seeds of Meridian
The steam rose from the millstone like a prayer. Marcus Johnson stood before it each morning at five, his broad shoulders bent over the grindstone, his hands—calloused from war, scarred from labour—moving with a rhythm learned over thirty-two years of life. First in the tobacco fields of North Carolina, then in the shipyards of Baltimore, then in the trenches of Champagne, and now here, in a...
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