The Wistful Mirror
The coal had to be counted, not merely poured, because the meter was a liar and the cold was a truth that bit through the thin wool of my shirt. I stacked the lumps in the iron grate, three rows of six, until the black mountain reached the lip of the door, and I watched the soot settle on my hands like a fine, grey powder that no amount of scrubbing could fully remove. My father had left three...
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