The Wistful Mountain
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a sigh of gas that leaked from the main valve of the great foundry, a hiss that sounded too much like the wind moving through the dry reeds of our childhood home before the storm. I was standing at the head of the line, my hands clasped behind my back, watching the smoke rise in a thick, grey column that defied the logic of the industrial age we had...
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