The Golden Crossing
The iron lungs of the Blackwood Refinery coughed out a thick, amber fog that settled over the valley like a burial shroud, heavy with the scent of sulfur and rotting apples, a perfume that had become so woven into the fabric of the town that the residents no longer smelled it but rather tasted it on their tongues, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and refused to be washed away...
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