The Faded River
The paper was thin, translucent enough that the grain of the desk beneath showed through like a vein in a bruised hand. Martha Marsh held it up to the window, the light filtering through the soot-streaked glass, and read the figures for the third time. The ink was fresh, blue and sharp against the yellowed ledger page, and it told a story that did not match the one the mill told every day at...
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