The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a grey, persistent damp that settled into the bones of the house and the clothes worn by the men who worked within its walls. It was the autumn of 1924, and the air in the mill district of Whitmore’s Creek tasted of iron filings and wet wool. Arthur Penhaligon sat at his desk, a low, wooden slab that absorbed the oil from his hands, and stared at the...
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