The Distant Promise
The rain on the roof of the Blackwood Ironworks was a drumbeat that did not cease. You stood in the corridor, your collar wet, your hands trembling not from the cold but from the weight of the paper in your pocket. It was a rejection. Director Halloway had not even looked at you when he spoke, his eyes fixed on the ledger before him, his voice a dry rasp that cut through the hum of the...
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