The Pale Altar

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2026-08-22 08:27:57 -

The Pale Altar

The steam from the Monongahela River hung low over the tracks as I stepped off the train, the air thick with the scent of coal dust and wet iron. I was forty years old, and I carried nothing but a satchel containing two shirts, a pair of boots, and a cracked shard of white porcelain from the kitchen of my father’s house in Galway. I wanted a job at the Carnegie Steel works, a permanent position...

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