The Wistful Silence
The fire started in the boiler room, or so the town records would later claim, a simple mechanical failure of a rusted valve that sent a jet of superheated steam screaming through the dry, timber-framed walls of the old textile mill on the edge of Harrowgate, and I was there, standing in the center of the floor with my hands pressed against my ears, not because of the noise, though it was a...
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