The Wistful Saga
The pick strikes the shale with a dull, wet crack that echoes down the narrow drift, and you wipe the sweat from your brow, your fingers slick with a grime that seems to burn into the skin. It is 1904, and the air in the Holloway Mine is thick with the taste of iron and ozone, a localized phenomenon that the foremen call "the breath" but which you know is the mine speaking. You are Thomas,...
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