The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 18:05:43 -

The furnace coughed. A black plume of smoke spiraled up from the stack, thick as tar, tasting of sulfur and old ash. Margaret stood in the yard, her hands deep in her apron pockets. She did not look at the house. She looked at the sky. The sky was the color of a bruise. The town of Blackwood was dying. Not quickly. Not with a scream. It was dying by inches. The mills had closed. The river ran...

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