The Wistful Crossroads
The coal dust in your fingers is black, but the skin beneath is turning the color of wet ash. You look at your hands, flexing the knuckles, and see the veins fading like ink in water. It is 1912, and the cold in Harrowgate is not just weather; it is a thing that eats. The Gray Breath has been creeping up the valley for three weeks, swallowing the heat from the stoves and the breath from the...
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