The Distant Nightmare
The iron mill at the edge of the Blackwater Valley did not scream when it fell, nor did it shatter in a way that would satisfy the crude expectations of the townsfolk who had watched its smokestacks for forty years, but rather it exhaled a long, ragged sigh of rusted metal and wet timber, folding in upon itself like a dying man trying to find a comfortable position in a bed that was too small,...
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