The Wistful Mountain
The letter from the Colliery Office was thin, the paper cheap and rough under Elias’s fingers, bearing only the stamped refusal of his pension claim and a line in red ink noting his "nervous tremors" as evidence of malingery. He read it twice, the ink blurring slightly as his left hand, the one that had worked the picks for twenty years, began to shake in a rhythmic, involuntary spasm. He...
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