The Distant Summer
The morning began with the smell of wet iron and the low, groaning hum of the great steam engine that lay buried beneath the floorboards of the orphanage, a beast that had not slept in forty years. Thomas, who was twelve and thin as a reed, stood by the window of the dormitory, watching the grey fog roll off the river. It was a thick, heavy mist, the kind that swallowed the world whole, erasing...
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