The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-23 11:22:33 -

I counted the coins in my palm. Four shillings and sixpence. That was the price of the train ticket to Harrowgate, and the last of the money I had left before the mill’s final payday. It was November, 1912, and the air in the station was thick with the smell of wet wool and coal smoke. Elise sat on the bench opposite me, her face pale as the paper of the ticket I clutched in my hand. She was...

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