The Wistful Dinner
The coal dust in the Vane Mill did not settle; it hovered, a perpetual gray snow that coated the lungs of men and machinery alike. Clara Vane stood alone in the office, the silence pressing against her eardrums like deep water, while the ghost of her husband, Arthur, drifted behind her, his form eroding into wet ash. He was a foreman of the dead, appearing only when she lied, his presence a...
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