The Distant Clue
The fire started in the grain silo at four in the morning, and by the time the steam whistles screamed their hollow, industrial shriek across the blackened valley, the sky above Harrow’s Gorge was no longer a sky but a bruised membrane of orange and ash. You stood at the edge of the cordon, the soot in your lungs tasting of iron and burnt sugar, watching the heat shimmer distort the world into...
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