The Distant Summer
The ledger in your father’s hand is open to the page for the twelfth of October, 1904, and the ink is still wet, a dark smear against the paper that looks less like writing and more like a bruise. You are twelve years old, Thomas, and you are sitting at the edge of the table in the kitchen of the Ashworth Mill house, watching your father, Edward, press his thumb into the ink to keep the line...
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