The Distant Summer

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2026-08-23 05:50:56 -

The fog did not rise from the water; it grew in the center of the Iron Bridge, a thick, white curtain that swallowed the middle span every morning at dawn. I was twelve years old in the autumn of 1893, and I believed, with the absolute certainty of a child, that it was merely weather. My father, Thomas, sat by the stove in our cramped room above the chandler’s shop, his cough rattling like...

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