The Distant Summer
The ink on the contract was still wet when Elias Vane signed it, the black stain spreading into the whorls of his left palm like a bruise taking root. He was thirty years old, a coal miner with lungs that rattled in the cold and a wife, Martha, whose cough had grown loud enough to wake the neighbors in the row of terraced houses on Slathey Lane. The mine owner, Mr. Harrow, stood behind the...
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