The Distant Whispers
The air in the Blackwood Mill canteen was thick enough to chew, a suffocating blanket of steam and stale tobacco that settled into the pores of the skin and refused to lift. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of a scarred wooden table, his hands wrapped around a mug of watered-down tea that had gone cold an hour ago, his eyes fixed on the swinging doors that led to the foreman’s office. He was...
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