The Faded River
The soot in Blackwood did not fall like snow; it settled, a grey silt that choked the lungs of the city and the men who kept its secrets. My father, Arthur, had been a night watchman for the Ironworks for thirty years, a tenure that should have secured him a pension, yet his cough had grown so deep and rattling that he could no longer climb the ladder to the catwalks where the steam vents...
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