The Pale Shadows
The pension claim form lay on the desk, a sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper that felt heavier than its weight in the cold air of the office. Elias Thorne held the pen, the nib hovering over the signature line, his hand steady but his chest tight with a low, rhythmic thrum that seemed to originate from the steam pipes running along the ceiling. It was November, 1912, and the mill at Harrowgate...
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