The Pale Echo

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2026-08-20 00:53:25 -

The Pale Echo

The smoke did not rise. It hung, a bruised and violet shroud, over the slag heaps of the valley. I stood at the edge of the ridge, my boots sinking into the wet ash, watching the town of Oakhaven bleed its secrets into the wind. My father lay three hundred yards down, beneath a pile of twisted iron and charred timber. The fire had started in the mill, they said. An accident. A spark in the coal...

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