The Pale Mist
The coal dust in your lungs is a curse, Arthur, not a condition. Clara’s hand was ice against my sternum, her fingers digging into the wool of my shirt as if she could pull the grit out through the skin. I looked at her, really looked, and saw the hollows under her eyes, the way her cheekbones jutted like the rocks of the Firth. I wanted to argue, to tell her that it was merely an occupational...
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