The Distant Machine
The train shudders to a halt in the grey throat of the station. You step out. The air tastes of iron and wet wool. It is November. The town of Harrowgate is buried under a shroud of coal smoke and low fog. You are small. You are twelve. You carry a satchel that weighs too much for your shoulders. You are here to find work. You are here because the farm is dead. You are here because the cough...
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