The Wistful Mountain
The notice lay on the warped table, its edges curled like a dying leaf, detailing the deduction of two shillings for the theft of company rations, a bureaucratic cruelty that felt heavier than the coal dust coating the walls of our attic. My father, Arthur, did not look up from the loom; his hands, blackened to the knuckles, continued their rhythmic, mechanical beating against the shuttle, the...
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