The Wistful Ashes

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 15:34:47 -

The Wistful Ashes

My hand is black to the wrist, the coal dust packed into the whorls of my fingerprints like wet clay. I am shoveling. The chute groans above me, a low, metallic moan that vibrates in my teeth. New London, 1912. The air is thick, not just with smoke, but with something else, a taste of iron and old pennies that sits on the back of the tongue. I am twelve years old. I want to survive this shift....

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