The Wistful Show

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2026-08-20 10:29:23 -

The Wistful Show

The rain fell on the ironworks like a shroud. It was a cold, grey weeping that soaked into the bones of the men who worked the furnaces. I stood by the edge of the slag pit, my coat heavy with water. The steam rose in thick, white columns, curling around the gears and the pistons. It looked like ghosts. I knew them well. I had chased them for twenty years. My name was Silas. I was a sergeant in...

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