The Distant Summer
The iron gate of the Ashworth Foundry did not so much open as it surrendered, groaning under the weight of a century of rust and the sudden, suffocating heat of a summer that seemed to have no horizon, a season that had arrived not with the gentle warming of the earth but with the violent, percussive hammering of a sky that was less a dome of blue than a sheet of hammered copper, blinding and...
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