The Distant Summer
The ink was drying on the ledger when I heard the whistle. It was a low, mournful note, the kind that seeps into the marrow and refuses to leave. I did not look up. My hand, steady as a surgeon’s, traced the final line of accounts for the Whitmore Foundry. The numbers balanced. The margins were clean. For thirty years, my name had been etched into the fabric of this city, not as a man, but as a...
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