The Distant Whispers
The crack ran like a vein of dried blood across the northern wall of the pumping station. It was thin, barely a whisper of a fissure, but I knew its language. I knew it the way a father knows the limp in a child’s step, a subtle betrayal of the bone. I ran my thumb along the jagged edge of the limestone, feeling the grit of the dust that had settled there over decades of neglect. Twenty years I...
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