The Distant Promise
The fog in Blackwood Mill did not roll in; it sat, heavy and grey, like a shroud draped over the shoulders of the world. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the grinding floor, his boots sinking slightly into the wet residue of milled grain, and watched the water wheel turn with a slow, indifferent rhythm. It was a sound he had known for thirty years, a low, grinding thrum that vibrated in his...
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