The Wistful Mountain
The invoice for the hydraulic breaker came to four thousand dollars, a figure that sat in my pocket like a stone, heavy and cold. I stood in the center of the Blackwood Mill, the air thick with the smell of wet rot and old machine oil, and counted the hours remaining until the county deadline. Four days. One hundred and ninety-two hours. Enough time to clear the site, enough time to secure the...
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