The Distant Clue
The fog in Blackwood Mill did not merely obscure the view of the river; it consumed it, a thick, woolen gray that pressed against the glass of the workshop windows with the insistence of a debt collector, and I sat at my bench with my hands stained black by the grease of the steam valves, listening to the rhythmic, heavy thud of the turbines below, which was the only heartbeat I had ever...
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