The Wistful Silence
The fog in the valley did not merely sit; it breathed, a slow, wet inhalation that swallowed the iron ridges of the mill and the skeletal pines beyond. I stood at the edge of the timber line, my boots sinking into the loam, watching the steam rise from the cooling tanks like the ghosts of the coal we had burned for thirty years. The air tasted of sulfur and wet wool, a flavor so specific to...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews