The Faded Dust
"You're letting the rot in, Thomas," your father says. His voice is thin, scraped raw by the cough that has lived in his chest since the mines closed. He stands in the doorway of the old mill, leaning heavily on the frame. The wood groans under his weight. It groans under the weight of your own guilt. The air inside is thick. Dust hangs in the shafts of grey light cutting through the broken...
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