The Pale Bridge
The inspection report lay on the wet planks of the walkway, the ink still drying in the cold November air. Elias held the pen, the nib scratching against the paper as he tried to circle the defect in the main truss. He needed this signed. He needed the pension. The Ironworks Bridge was his life, his debt, his only hope of leaving this town with something left in his pockets. "Stop scratching,"...
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