The Distant Metropolis
The rifle stock was slick with sweat, the wood dark and oily against Elias Thorne’s palm, a weight that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat. He stood in the center of the mill yard, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and the acrid bite of coal smoke, watching the strikers picket the gate. The heat was a physical thing, a heavy blanket that pressed against his lungs, making every...
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