The Distant Wound
14th October, 1893. The ink in my well is not behaving. I have tried to file the final report on the three missing mill workers, the ones who failed to clock out last Tuesday, but the black fluid refuses to dry, spreading in wet, trembling halos that bleed through the parchment as if the paper itself were weeping. I am forty-two years old, and I have served Oakhaven for twenty years, and all I...
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