The Weight of a Mother's Silence
The Whitfield cottage on Miller's Lane smelled of coal smoke and something older, something that had seeped into the plaster walls over thirty years and would not leave. Thomas Whitfield stood in the doorway and felt the weight of it press against his chest, heavier than the crutch leaning against his leg, heavier than the limp that had followed him from London since the day the file cabinet...
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